


Memento Mori

by sparrow2000



Series: Memento Mori [1]
Category: BtVS - Fandom
Genre: Gen, major angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 20:04:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 31,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrow2000/pseuds/sparrow2000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my take on a 'What If'... from the end of Buffy Season 6. It was written over the summer of 2007 for the LJ community Taming the Muse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** : Joss and Mutant Enemy et al own everything. I own nothing  
>  **Beta extraordinaire** : [](http://thismaz.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://thismaz.livejournal.com/)**thismaz**  
>  **Warnings** : This is an angst fest and there is character death. It gets pretty dark in the latter chapters, so be warned...*g*

_  
**Memento Mori: Prologue**   
_   


The horror was man-made. A bullet from a gun. There were no demons, no prophecies, no portents of impending apocalypse. No cry of Havoc. No Dogs of War. Just one endless moment, which was over in an instant, and then nothing. No grief, no tears, no mourning. Just a black hole filled with hate and power and rage. And a promise to end the world.

It was so easy once. Buffy fought, Willow did the knowledge thing and I did relief. How did I miss the change?

The trio were a joke. Until suddenly they weren’t. And Tara. Poor Tara, played their sacrificial lamb and they didn’t even know it. Not then. Stupid little boys, with their action figures and their ray guns. They couldn’t even get a killing right. But looking back, perhaps Tara got off easy. It was everyone else who took the fall for their stupid, geekish, comic-fuelled fantasies and a magical indulgence writ large. Why didn’t we see it coming? Why didn’t we know? Were we so sure of ourselves? So smug? So invincible?

This was our turf, our pitch. We’d played the game so often and we never dropped the ball. And we always bounced back. Until now.

Willow. My precious Willow, (never mind Buffy) she was my one girl in all the world and the world was what she’d always offered me. She made me believe that things were possible and that lives could change. She saw me and she taught me and she held me and I could never tell her how I felt. I never had the words, but I never stopped trying. I tried to tell her in kindergarten, with the stupid yellow crayon, and then again in High School with necessary denial and sumptuous bruises hidden under jokes and ridiculous shirts. Then came Graduation, with the flush of victory singing in my veins and Larry’s fingers memorised on my back, and still I couldn’t find the words. But she knew. She was my Willow.

I don’t understand how it happened. I don’t understand how we changed. I don’t understand how we drifted apart. She was always above me and I knew she would leave. But she would still be with me, because she was my Willow. She fell in love and she glowed with happiness, and she was still my Willow. Then the darkness crept in, slowly at first, hiding in corners and oozing under doors and into hearts and heads. But she was still my Willow.

So Scoobies did, what Scoobies do. We flew the flag and rallied the troops and fought the darkness. And there was my Willow. And things made sense. Until they didn’t. Until now.

I don’t understand how this could happen. I don’t understand how simple words could cut me deeper than the sharpest knife. My world is shattered. My memories: scars of inadequacy and loss. They pin me in my place – framed and mounted for all to witness the enormity of my crimes.

Words. Hateful, penetrating, grotesque – they invade me and scour my soul and nourish the seeds of my guilt. It blooms in my heart and in my head. Black blossoms of dread and damnation and disgust.

I sit here and stare at the wall and I hear the accusation again, screaming through my brain. And there is nowhere to hide. Truth and justice. _Round_. Punishment and release. _And round_. Hatred and corruption and fear. _And round_. And endlessly round.

Please, my Willow. Please, let me die.


	2. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We’re all as much in the dark as Xander is at this point

**  
_Memento Mori: Part 1_   
**

**Three hours earlier…**

The walls of my cell are grey and flat. Featureless and windowless. One small table. One hard chair. One narrow, too short bed - my feet hang over. The facilities, discreet behind a gaudy plastic curtain.

The time crawls. I glance at my watch. Again. And I wonder why I bother. I remember nameless movies where the prisoner’s watch is always taken and speculate on the oversight. Perhaps watching the minutes tick past is part of the softening up phase, making me more pliable for whatever lies ahead.

I’ve been here three long, frustrating, mind-numbing days. Long enough to spend far too long contemplating the crappy taste of anyone who’d buy a candy stripped plastic curtain, peppered with purple frogs. Even with my fashion choices, I’ve never owned a shirt that looked quite that bad. Perhaps it’s an insidious start to the torture.

I don’t know where I am and no one will talk to me.

I think I’ve disappeared. And no one comes to talk to me.

I’m sitting staring at a fucking plastic shower curtain. And no one will fucking talk to me.

Deep breath. I must not lose it. Not again. Last night I cracked - just a bit. Couldn’t stand the empty echo of my voice bouncing off the bare stone walls. I hammered on the door until my knuckles were raw, but no one came. Stupid really. I don’t know why I thought it would work that time when it didn’t work on the first day. I finally threw my dinner tray against the wall in sheer frustration. Juvenile of me, I know, but very satisfying. It’s just sitting there – a heap of cracked plastic and congealed, unidentifiable gloop. I tried to shove it back through the slot in the door where the other meals have come and gone, but the cover is hinged on the outside and it won’t budge. So I dumped it back where it had landed. I actually kind of like the effect of the mess. It looks like some surreal sculpture. But obviously someone doesn’t appreciate art because I haven’t been fed today. Bad Xander. Point taken.

I wish I knew what they wanted. There’s bound to be a ‘they’. How can I prepare for what’s to come if I don’t understand why I’m here?

I just want something to happen. Something. Anything. If Ethan Rayne in all his glory walked through the door, I think I’d kiss him just for the contact.

For the 100th and perhaps the 1000th time, I try to work out why I’m here. What did I do to deserve this? I try again, but the movie in my head is still the same. Giles leaving. Tearing Buffy out of heaven. Giles coming back. Dealing with Dawn’s foray into crime. Singing in silk pyjamas and lusting after Anya in those undies! I wonder if she knows I’m missing? I wonder if she cares? Giles leaving. Willow and her magic problems and Tara’s version of tough love. God, they fit so well together, I really hope they make it. I hope Willow can prove to Tara that’s she’s getting better. And of course, the wedding. My crowning achievement as a Harris. Proof that blood will always out. If there was an Olympic sport in Loserdom, then I’d be a sure thing for gold. Loser Harris, knocking them right out of the park, time, after time, after time. I’d probably hold some kind of record if there was anyone interested enough to keep score. Poor Anya, she didn’t deserve any of it. I couldn’t face my fears. I couldn’t tell her what I saw. I couldn’t explain why. So I left. I walked away. The rain running down my neck, drowning my heart as I went to drown my sorrows. I remember holding my bow tie and pushing it into the trash. Burying my dreams with the rest of the rubbish.

Then here. Then nothing. God, I must have been drunk, because I don’t remember anything else.

Hell, I’m bored. The highlight of my day is the food, when it actually arrives, a shower and washing my boxers. I still have some pride. I would go commando, but feel I need every piece of armour I can get and these thin grey pants just aren’t cutting it.

That’s one really weird thing, out of all the other weirdness. No tux. I was in my tux in the bar and now it’s gone. My dress shoes have gone as well but at least I can understand the psychology of that one, but what the hell kind of a kidnapper steals formal wear. Oh god, maybe they’ve got a hellhound that needs training, and now I know I’m getting hysterical. I wonder if I’ll see the tux again. Just to see something familiar would help. And I hate to think what the late return charges will be – if I’m around to pay them. I came to in these pants and an equally grey shirt and they’re definitely not mine. I wore the shirt the first day, and the second; sure that someone would come - that I’d need to be ready. Now it hangs over the chair back, looking grubby. I contemplate laundry. Perhaps later. Thinking about the tux makes me realise that my cufflinks are missing. Willow’s present to me. Her way of telling me that I was a grown up now. Now they’re gone and I feel so small.

I can’t believe the wedding was only 3 days ago. It feels like a lifetime. My chance for happiness. My chance for something better and I blew it. It wasn’t just the demon that made me run. It made me realise that I didn’t really love Anya, not like she deserved. I’ve only really loved once and I couldn’t lie to her. I couldn’t lie to myself. The guilt presses down and I close my eyes on the greyness and seek solace in happier times.

My mind drifts, floating back in memory and half remembered pleasures.

 _Sunlight squints through the trees and dapples on golden skin. “Hey Xan, come over here.” Jesse smiles and strokes one long finger across the inside of my wrist, making me shiver gently. “You know there’s no space between us, not really. We’re one person. I can feel you and you can feel me, under your skin, in your head and in your dreams. When we’re here, everything feels connected, like everything is open and vivid. Don’t you feel it?” I feel myself smiling self consciously. Jesse is the poet in our group. He describes emotions I could never name and makes them my reality._

 _So this is love. Finally, I understand the word. Not just the letters on the surface, but the depth of emotion that surrounds me. My Willow love is constant and soft. But this is heat and power and sensation, and I am drowning. I gasp for breath, and let myself submerge into tenderness I didn’t know I could deserve. This love makes me brave._

 _Our lips brush lightly, testing and tasting. Mapping every memory for future contemplation. Hands dance across shoulders and through tangled hair, teasing at the autumn leaves left from the tumble of earlier play. He whispers, honey in my ear. “Not going to ever leave you, Xan. Even when things change, I’ll always be here with you. You know Willow will leave and you know you’ll let her. But you and me, always going to be like this. Even when things change, we’ll always be one person.”_

 _Tongues and fingers and hitching breath. Gentleness turns to urgency and final staggering relief. I feel his lips ghost across my eyelids. “Love you Xan. Always going to love you.”_

A key scrapes harshly against a lock and the rattle of a heavy bolt echoes in the silence. And the golden haze recedes, crashing me back to grey reality. I focus on the door and pull on my shirt, panicked by the dizzying array of possibilities. Human, demon, dead or undead? Fear of the unknown shudders through me, making me tremble and lose my resolution. I struggle with the buttons and again I feel like a child.

 

A figure stands in the doorway, large, intimidating and impassive. I gather my strength and resist the temptation of the normal kidnap clichés – Where am I? Why am I here? Who are you people? He just stands there waiting and looking at me.

“Can I have my shoes? Please.” I try for non-confrontational - for now. But there’s nothing. No acknowledgement. No response.

“So you’ll be the strong, silent, type,” I mutter. He looks at me quizzically and I hear a buzzing in the back of my brain. The insidious voice of my subconscious whispers something too low to hear and I feel the beginnings of real fear.

He walks away, leaving the door ajar and looks back expectantly.

For the want of anything better to do, I follow.

The corridors are as bland as my room and give no clue to location or destination. As we stop in front of a plain brown door I can hear the murmur of voices on the other side. Okay Harris, show them what you’re made of – square shoulders, deep breath, eyes front. I glance to the floor and see mismatched socks. Suddenly I’ve never felt more vulnerable in my life.

My minder pushes at the door and steps forward and I can only follow.

“Ah Mr Harris, thank you for joining us”


	3. Memento Mori - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wonder who/what is behind the door…..

_  
**Memento Mori - Part 2**   
_   


I feel like a puppet on a pre-set stage. I emerge from below - from the cells, like in all good courtroom drama. My doorway is small and mean, hidden in a corner, out of sight and mind. A heavy tapestry hides it from the rest of the room, concealing the unpleasant reality of my world behind scenes of heroic deeds. I emerge from behind my curtain and inspect the theatre as it stretches out before me. That’s one thing about spending so long on the Hellmouth. I’ve learned to always check my perimeter, wherever I am. Know where your exits are; check the danger areas before you do anything else. I know there’s an audience waiting for me, but I force myself to make them wait. They’ve kept me waiting long enough.

Compared to my room, the scale of the chamber is shocking. Constructed to impose; to diminish and dismiss the unworthy and the unwary. It’s obviously been designed by a disciple of the Hammer school of architecture, although if that bastard Dracula turns up I really won’t be happy. No matter what happens, I swear I’m not eating bugs this time round. Although by the end of this ordeal who knows what I might beg to do. I shiver at the thought and force myself to continue the survey.

There’s a smell of old wood and older tobacco and the heavy stone flags send a chill through unprotected feet. The walls are dark and panelled and the design draws the eye along a rogue’s gallery of petrified faces and down to tall stained glass windows, made gloomy by years of neglect and the heaviness of ancient drapes. I notice a love seat nestled in the bay of each window and they look so incongruous in all this gloom. I try to conjure up a time when this space was filled with warmth and laughter, but my imagination cannot stretch that far. I can’t imagine any seduction taking place here. Death and corruption yes, but there’s no love here. No heart. The room is a vampire in bricks and mortar, sucking the life out of anyone who passes through its doors.

I struggle against the morbid thoughts and force my gaze upwards, tracing the arc of beams constructed with a true craftsman’s skill. My inner carpenter should take pleasure from the manifestation of such care and attention, but all I can sense is decay and incipient disease, and the dust tasting heavy on my tongue.

An ornate fireplace occupies the wall between the windows. Once elegant and cared for, it now looks worn and forgotten. Carved scrolls and ivy crawl across the freeze and winged lions stand guard at the bottom of worn stone pillars. It seems so out of place in all this darkness. A symbol of light. An echo from a different time and a tribute to mason’s skill and a master’s vanity. Now the stone is cold and the fire remains unlit.

I feel my jailor’s hand come to rest on my shoulder; an unspoken command to move, but I resist for a few more precious moments. My eyes move left, towards the centre of the other panelled wall and an elaborate arched door, echoing the curve of the beams. The wood seems to glow, despite the layer of dust, the only part of the room with any warmth. Perversely, the sight makes me shiver as I realise that others more privileged have access divorced from my reality of hidden corners, small spaces and featureless grey. I speculate on a life beyond the door but suspect my path will lead me back beyond the tapestry.

The muttering of voices takes on form and substance from behind a long wooden table scarred with age and use. The pressure from the hand on my shoulder becomes more insistent and I turn slowly, finishing my inventory and my silent guide moves away.

Twelve men sit looking at me, like I was something they’d scraped off their shoe and although I don’t know why I’m really here, I know this is an Inquisition. Time to gather my faltering courage and face the here and now.

Looking forward, nervous and defiant, I recognise the figure seated at the centre of the table and I feel the hysteria well up and flood through me. How could I not have realised? It’s so obvious. How did I not figure it out? He sits there, neat and precise and poisonous as hell and I stand my ground by force of will. The others are like clones – suits and shirts and ties, but their eyes are alive and watching me – judging every movement. His eyes are as dead as the men in the paintings at my back and the voice in my head returns and it’s screaming and I can’t hear anything but a confusion of random thoughts bubbling in my brain. I stare at my judges and my mind scrabbles for something to cling to – wooden table, carved chairs, cufflinks, starched shirts, buffed nails, stale sweat, shark smile. Ties.

There’s so many ties. We don’t do ties. Ties are for weddings and funerals and job interviews – when we can get them. Ties mean appropriateness and correctness, all the things a Harris never is and never will be. What would I do with a tie, anyway? Hang myself and save them the trouble?

Ties mean guilt. Teachers and social workers. Ties mean Giles and disappointment, and judges, juries and executioners and please can we not go there.

Suddenly the main door opens and Giles is standing in the doorway, breathless and looking at me like he’s seeing a ghost. He opens his mouth to speak but my jailor is at his back, guiding him to a chair by the door and he lets himself be seated. He’s still staring at me, confusion and worry in his face. Then I notice it. He’s not wearing a tie. Would he have had a seat at the top table if he’d been tie-wearing man? I’m sorry sir; your usual table for this slaughter isn’t available, please come dressed more appropriately for the next act.

I grasp at the roots of my hysteria and try to bring myself back. There’s no time for panic. No time for reunions. I wipe my hands on the cheap material of my trousers and again I wonder, briefly, about my missing tux. I take a deep breath and look up at the architect of my anxiety.

Hey Quentin, can I borrow a tie?


	4. Memento Mori: Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finally find out why Xander’s there – wherever there is..

_  
**Memento Mori: Part 3**   
_   


Travers smiles, predator and epicure in one malignant package and I shiver at the thought of him picking at my bones. He holds centre stage at the table and motions me to a plain, high backed chair sited on its own in full view of the tribunal. The leather on the back rest is dull and worn and the chair arms have obviously been removed at some point in its life. I can still see an uneven coating of ancient wood glue cling to the back support where the arm rests had once been joined. For a moment I wonder if the removal had been deliberate, to give the Council’s victims no protection, nothing to hold onto. Despite the tension in the room, I can’t help a small inward grin. Only a Watcher could make such a simple piece of furniture so intimidating.

I refuse to sit. It’s another small rebellion, but it’s enough and I stand gripping the seat back. Knuckles white against cracked leather. My eyes flicker to Giles, still seated by the door. Isolated from the Council, just as he has been for so long. If he knows what’s going on, he’s obviously against it and if he’s as much in the dark as me, that probably spells even more trouble

I know that I’m displacing, losing myself in my thoughts so that I don’t have to face the reality of the situation and standing here, staring at these desiccated men, I have a sudden vision of the painting ‘And When Did You Last See Your Father?’ I remember Willow chattering about it after an Art History class at good old Sunnydale U. She was desperate to talk to Giles about it. As if the very fact that he was English could give her more insight into the artist’s mind. But Giles wasn’t there, so I got deputised, despite the lack of tweed. She had an enormous reference book with beautiful copies of famous paintings and she made me study the picture over coffee. Telling me the story behind the painting. Making me part of the tale. The memory strangely stuck in my head because I always wondered if I were in a similar situation to the people in the painting, would I have surrendered Tony, or defended him.

Travers clears his throat, his comment on my inattention. It’s obvious he loathes the slightest deviation from his well laid plans and the prisoner in the dock is not supposed to ignore the court. His voice echoes theatrically, revelling in the moment of domination.

“Alexander Harris, formerly of Sunnydale California, you have been brought before this Grand Committee of the Council of Watchers to stand trial on a capital charge.”

I turn again to Giles and see my own bewilderment mirrored in his eyes. Have the Council started arresting people for killing demons, vamps and the other assorted Hellymouthy detritus which populates the edges, and sometimes the centre of our lives. If that's my crime then I’m guilty as charged and so is every Watcher and Slayer who ever fought the Council’s battles. There has to be more to it than that. I picture Travers, sitting at his desk with his ledgers and his log books, surrounded by the trophies of wars he didn’t fight, watching the Scoobies from a distance and counting up every crime and misdemeanour – totting them up on his abacus like a latter day Scrooge. There’s a thousand things I want to shout at him, but Giles gets there before me.

“Travers, what the hell is going on? Why is Xander here? Why was I not informed?” He’s standing now, pausing to draw breath and his familiar fluency seems to desert him as I catch his eye again. To see Giles struggle for words shakes me more than any threat from the Council and now I am really afraid. Travers, ever the tactician, sees the moment of weakness and exploits it.

“I don’t think you are in a position to be making demands of this gathering _Mister_ Giles, and I would remind you that profanity is not appropriate in this chamber. Your relationship with the Council is precarious at best and this Committee has no requirement to indulge your curiosity. You are here under sufferance and I will not let you interfere with the deliberations of this investigation.”

Giles is glaring at him, loathing obvious in every suppressed movement as he returns to his seat. But he’s no fool. He knows the workings of the Council and he knows Travers. I’m sure that he’ll bide his time and wait for his opening.

Travers turns away from Giles, obviously dismissing him from his thoughts. “Now that we have some order, I believe we can return to the business at hand. Now, Mr Harris….”

Just the way he says my name makes it sound like an accusation. That being a Harris is a crime in itself. I’m not sure that he’s wrong, but I’m not Tony and I refuse to bend. I open my mouth to protest my situation, rummaging through my arsenal for the right weapons to bring Travers and his tin pot Council down to some very damp earth.

But my voice has frozen, and my mind locks down in disbelief and denial. I hear the voice of accusation echo through my bones. “Alexander Harris, you stand accused of the wilful murder of Willow Rosenberg. How do you plead?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested in finding out more about the painting “And When Did You Last See Your Father, you can click on the pretty link. <http://www.liverpoolmuseums.org.uk/walker/collections/lastseefather/>


	5. Memento Mori: Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xander’s as astonished as the rest of us.

_  
**Memento Mori: Part 4**   
_   


The phrase ‘time stood still’ in all its clichéd glory suddenly makes sense. Travers sits behind the table, the blood lust oozing like sweat from his pores. In my mind I see the shadow of a black cloth hovering, ghostly, above his head. Strangely, the image snaps me back to this reality and all I can do is laugh, before all the bottled up emotions from the last three days morphs to a tidal wave of rage.

“You bastard. You evil, conceited, inbred, perverted, mouldy old fuck. You get your heavies to kidnap me, keep me locked away without any human contact for days on end, deny me food when I have a pretty understandable hissy fit” Travers wrinkles his nose, perplexed by the unknown phase and I see Giles standing again, shock and confusion in his eyes.

“You have the nerve to treat me like a criminal after years of doing what you old bastards should have been doing – supporting your Slayer. Then you top up your arrogance with the most disgusting and foul accusation ever to have come spewing out of that cesspit you call a mind. And what right do you have to sit in judgement, anyway? If I really was guilty, why not hand me over to the police? I’m not a Slayer or a witch. I’m the one with no super powers, remember? You were very clear on that point, the last time you came to Sunnydale. Remember? When you went back home with your tail between your legs.” Travers glares at me, hate shining in his eyes and I realise that I’ve made things even worse. Screw it. I hate him right back.

My muscles are bunched and throbbing and my skin feel raw, as if exposure to Travers’ poison is gnawing at it from the inside. I grip the chair back in the certain knowledge that if I let go, I _will_ kill someone. I see Giles staring. Probably wondering at my rage fuelled fluency and I struggle not to revert to expectation. I can feel my nails digging into the leather of the chair, as I fight against the torrent of babble in my head; shoring up my mental dam as I grasp frantically for some control.

I think back to the theatre and the setting of the stage and draw upon my inner leading man. “I deny the accusation and the authority of this ludicrous kangaroo court.” In my head, I start to write my Oscar speech.

“Mr Harris, when was the last time you saw Miss Rosenberg?” The gentleness of his tone halts my rage and I stare at him bewildered.

I really don’t understand the question. When did I last see Will? Obviously at the wedding, but apart from that, who knows? It’s not like I keep a diary of our time together. Like Jesse was, Willow just is. We meet, we talk, we laugh, we fight and we make up. You don’t catalogue that stuff. It’s just there, like breathing. I only realise I haven’t answered when Travers asks again.

“Mr Harris, I don’t think it’s a difficult question. Surely you can remember your most recent encounter with your best friend?” He wields the phrase like a razor blade, sharp and cutting, shaving at the edges of my self confidence. I can feel eyes on me, waiting for my answer, waiting for my guilt to emerge.

Contempt flutters across Travers’ face and the shame of my cowardice and failure returns in full force. I stall for time, desperately looking for diversions. “Well, there was the whole crazy forgetting spell and can we please really, really forget that. And the break up with Tara, and the Amy de-ratting spell which led to the whole cold turkey thing.” Travers raises an eyebrow at the distasteful image and I realise I can’t escape my past. “I suppose what you’re really trying to rub my nose in, is the wedding fiasco. Willow was my best man and is my best friend. I saw her three days ago and you know where I’ve been since then. She was alive, wearing green satin, being my friend. She was alive, so you’re lying. Why would you make up something so disgusting?”

I can see Giles staring at me, horror in his eyes and all at once I feel myself begin to shake. He can’t think it’s true? He can’t believe this revolting lie? I want to go to him, to reinforce my innocence, but my legs refuse to work and there’s a heaviness running through my bones. I feel like I’m breathing under water and I can’t imagine forward motion. I want to turn the clock back three days. I wish I had the power….All at once something clicks together in my head and I stare at Travers and his carrion crew.

“Oh I get it. This is a Wish, isn’t it? I walked away from a vengeance demon because demon magnet Harris here got a visit from an old client spouting tales of a future filled with violence, abuse and hate.” Again I see Giles startle. He didn’t know about the visions and why I ran, but then again why should he? He wasn’t there.

“This is a Wish. A vengeance demons’ retribution for a woman scorned and the crux is the accusation that somehow, sometime, I killed my best friend. Been there, done that. The Tee Shirt doesn’t fit anymore. Try again Travers. You’re being used, but if you want to complete the intentions of the Wish you’ll have to come up with better than this. I may not be a good man, but some things I could never do. Go on Travers, try again. You’re losing your touch.”

He smiles benignly, and my explanation starts to crumble in my head. Giles is looking back and forward between us like he doesn’t know who to believe. “A plausible scenario Mr Harris, but I fear your crimes may have made you paranoid, and perhaps a little unhinged. That is a little labyrinthine, even for my taste” Both Giles and I choke in tandem, Travers being the master of wheels and cogs and plots. “There is no Wish, Mr Harris. No alternate reality. Do you really believe you are not capable of murder without such intervention? I think that the time has come to discover the truth.” He pulls back the folds of a faded silk cloth sitting in front of him and reveals an ancient hide-bound book. One part of my mind starts to play with every pun possible regarding “hide-bound” and the Council, but I see Travers eyes glittering, warning me of dangers still to come and I focus.

“Place your hands on the book and tell me again the last time you saw Miss Rosenberg”

“What? I’ve got to swear on the Bible now to prove I didn’t murder my best friend. Good grief, Quentin”. He bridles at the use of his first name, at the impertinence of my familiarity. “You know, God forbid, but you might still accuse me of perjury”.

“Mr Harris, this isn’t a Bible. It is in fact far older. Older than you could possibly comprehend. This is the only surviving copy of the Librum Veritas. It records and reflects the truth.” Momentarily I consider mentioning that the main exposure the Harris family has to Latin and Veritas is the ‘In Vino’ variety, but somehow I think that isn’t going to help my case.

“Well Giles knows my success with demony books. I don’t want to set the room on fire and how do I know that you haven’t programmed it, or something, so that it makes me look guilty?”

Travers sighs with exaggerated forbearance. “Yet again, the book only reflects the truth. Mr Giles, please?” Reluctantly Giles takes up the refrain, looking at Travers with a mixture of loathing and trepidation, but in the end nodding in confirmation. “It’s true; the book simply reflects the truth which exists within you. Your innocence or guilt is verified in its pages.”

I have to smile, appreciating the delicacy in the order of his words. Nodding, I leave the sanctuary of my chair back, approach the table and stop, staring at the empty page. I know I have nothing to hide.

“As you will see, the pages now are blank. When you make contact with the book and begin to speak, the pages will fill with a reflection of your memories. An actual recording of what happened from the time of the events you are recounting up until the present time. I say again, the book cannot lie. If can only reflect your own memories, however hidden they may be.”

I place my hand across the middle of the page and I can feel my skin crawl as Travers reaches across the table and pushes my fingers back until only the tips are resting on the edge of the parchment. He pulls away quickly, as if he finds the contact equally distasteful. I look down at the blank page and begin to recount my fractured memories of the wedding and its aftermath and watch for the truth to be reflected back, as the pages fill. I catch Travers eye and he is grinning and I turn back to the script crawling across virgin white. In my mind I’m in the bar, in my tux, wallowing in grief and self pity and my voice falters and stops. But there’s a roaring in my ears and the pages continue to fill and I can’t pull myself away. I feel like I’m watching in slow motion and reading at the speed of light, and I feel my legs turn to liquid.

Words. Hateful, penetrating and grotesque. They invade me and scour my soul and sow the seeds of my guilt. Willow, please. Please let me die.

The world falls away and I fade to grey.


	6. Memento Mori: Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xander gets a visit from Giles

_  
**Memento Mori: Part 5**   
_   


_I float slowly out of the darkness, skimming the surface of consciousness and awareness._

 _Jesse lies on his side on the golden leaves staring intently down at me as I sprawl, boneless, on my back. But there are no soft touches or gentle caresses and my heart aches at the absence. His hand hovers over my face and slaps sharply down, leaving an echo of his fingers painted across clammy skin._

 _“I said I’d never leave you Xan. I promised. And I keep my promises. But you betrayed her. You betrayed her love and her light and you set yourself up to judge her. What right did you have to judge your betters? Wasn’t it enough to kill me? I forgave you and I stayed with you. But you had to combat your darkness by stealing every other light._

 _"You should have helped her. It was your chance to help her. It was your place and your rank and your duty. But even with me beside you, you were still inadequate and unfit for the task. So I’ll stay with you Xan. This is my duty now. To stay and remind you of your failure and your guilt.”_

 _Lips ghost gently over my eyelids and his honeyed whispers linger in the air. “Sleep well Xan. Sweet dreams. You know I’ll be waiting for you.”_

My fingers claw at the blankets, fighting for escape. Deep, fear filled breathes and tremors create a flood of anguish through my body. I struggle against the charges and the hateful echoes in my mind. Painful, twisted words. This isn’t my Jesse. He’d never say such things, could never be so mean. But awakening brings bitter counsel and reality bites, its teeth as sharp as needles and I know my refuge has disappeared. Jesse was my conscience and my compass and it’s his right to judge me. I feel him on my shoulder, and I hear his accusations in my head, and see them merge with the words etched into the pages of the book. Guilt tattooed on my soul and in my brain.

The memories are a tidal wave and I feel like the king who tried to stop the sea. I can’t remember his name, but Willow would know. Willow would have known. My breath hitches and I feel the edges of my world go grey again, and I would welcome the dark. But I force myself to concentrate. I can’t allow myself the luxury of forgetfulness. I don’t deserve such relief. I look around my cell, seeking comfort in the bizarre familiarity, but the shower rain and curtain are gone. There are no more purple frogs, just white porcelain and hard steel – open and vulnerable for anyone to see. I notice for the first time that the light in the ceiling sits in a cage giving no way to reach the glass. My watch and belt are also gone, in addition to my shoes. I didn’t have a tie.

Hunched in my too short bed I wonder who had the dubious pleasure of dragging me back to my cell? I wonder how much time has passed since then? How long did I escape the reality of my crimes? And I wonder what payment I’ll have to make for every moment of my sanctuary.

A key scrapes in the un-oiled lock and again I startle at the noise. How long since I was innocent?

My jailor stands silently at the door and Giles stands behind him, shuffling uncertainly. I look at him, just once and then roll to face the wall. Go away, you’re not welcome. You have no place here among the dead.

“Xander, please. I need to talk to you. Please, may I come in?” His voice is gentle, the accent like and yet so unlike Travers. There’s compassion and guilt and an edge of something like love that makes me want to hurl something at his head. There’s no crockery to hand.

“There’s nothing to say. You came. You saw. They conquered. I’ll be sentenced as I should be and the world will be a better place.” My breath stills and I can’t look at him, but I know he hasn’t moved and in the end I give in to curiosity and hurt. “Why are you here, Giles? You didn’t know I was here, did you? I saw the shock on your face when you came through the door. Did you ever wonder where I’d gone? Did you even bother to look?” I know I’m being irrational, but the need to lash out is just so great.

“Xander, please?” I’m lying with my back to him and I imagine that he’s cleaning his glasses, but probably not. I don’t think he did it nearly as often as we joked about. But a stereotype always has a foundation in truth and this was, and is, our portrait of Giles. It’s the same reason I’m stupid.

I hear him walk forward, venturing further into the small space between the door and the bed and I realise he’s not going to go until I acknowledge him. Just as I roll back to face him, he nods towards the watchman. The door swings shut and both the key and the bolt rattle in the silence. All at once I wonder if Giles is perceived as accuser, friend or accomplice.

“No, I didn’t know you were here. Not at first. And no I didn’t search. I didn’t know I had to. Xander, I thought you were dead. I thought you were both dead.” There’s a crack in his voice and I watch him turn away for a moment, like he’s struggling for control and I shuffle to the side of the bed and draw my knees up to my chin, watching as he turns back towards me.

“I knew you’d stopped Willow's madness because, well, the world didn’t end. But you didn’t come back. And yes, I did go to find you, then. I was terrified of what I might find. I went to the Bluff and there was nothing. Just the shattered remains of the temple and some scorched earth. I searched, but there was just ash and the tattered remains of a shirt.” He stops and puts his hand in his pocket. I expect to see a handkerchief or another glasses cloth, but the only thing in his hand is a scrap of flannel, tattered and stiff with blood. “I’m sorry. There was nothing left and goodness knows, we looked. I thought you were dead. That you’d saved the world and paid the price. That Willow’s magic needed a release and it consumed you both.”

The air feels thick in my throat and I start to struggle for breath. Giles moves forward and I can see his hand hovering above my arm like he wants to touch, but is unsure of his welcome. I take a deep breath and look away from him and he takes his cue to step back. “And the others? Buffy? Dawn? Did they stop looking, too?” I can’t bring myself to say Anya’s name. It’s like I’ve lost the right.

“They’ve been grieving. We all have.” He looks me in the eye and emphasises the ‘all’ and something in my heart begins to shatter. “Then I heard a whisper that the Council had found the cause of Willow’s death and I had to come. I had to try to find some answers which might help.”

“Well I guess you’ve found your answers, but I doubt they’re going to help. Lie to them Giles. They don’t deserve the truth. Not this truth.” There’s an itching on my arm and I look down and realise that I’ve been running my nails along the sensitive skin on the inside of my wrists. The skin is red and it would take so little to make it bleed. In a dark corner of my mind I begin to make plans and I can’t help but start when I realise that Giles is talking again.

“Xander, I know this is hard and I know that you’re frightened and angry right now. But I need to know what happened. Not what the book reflected, but here, now, talk to me, tell me what happened to bring this to pass”.

His tone is gentle and I struggle against it. I can’t afford his pity. “You mean tell you... Describe to you, how I killed me best friend. How much detail do you want Rupert?” Like Travers, Giles shocks at the familiarity. “What does Quentin say?” At that he really does take off his glasses. I hope someone is keeping score. He stares at me for a moment, like he can finally see me clearly without his protection. And then the moment passes and the glasses go back where they belong.

“The Council’s position is that you were so traumatised by the act of killing Willow that you suppressed what happened and all the events leading up to act. That is, until the book unlocked your memories, and the truths bottled inside you. The last normal event, and I use the term loosely, that you experienced together was the wedding, so that’s where your memory stopped.”

"And you’d know all about the wedding” I whisper, suddenly vicious and wanting to hurt again. He has the grace to blush and look away and all at once the blissful taste of revenge turns to ashes in my mouth and I struggle with my own twisted feelings of inadequacy and guilt.

“I need to understand Xander. If I'm to do anything to help your defence, I need to know more about your perspective. Not just what Travers says.”

“You want my perspective, my rationale, because you want to help me? You want to understand my motivation and my guilt?” I can see him flinch under the beginnings of my tirade. “Make no mistake, I’m guilty. But what about you," I whispered, again vicious and vindictive. “What about your guilt?

“You left. You started as a Watcher to Buffy, but then you became so much more to us all – teacher, mentor, sometimes even a friend.” I want to say father-figure, but the words won’t come. “Then you walked away for the greater good and left us to drown.

“Do you really want to know what happened? Do you want me to draw you a picture of our precious Willow stripping the flesh from someone’s bones and trying to put the world out of its misery?” I feel the hate and guilt and rage inside me towering upwards.

“I killed her. The spell she cast was draining her like a battery and I couldn’t reach her. She wouldn’t stop. She wouldn’t listen. She wouldn’t hear me. I tried to reach her. And then I touched her. Searching for a connection. I slid my hands around her neck, trying to hold her down, but she wouldn’t stop. She couldn’t stop. And I squeezed and then I twisted. I broke her. Like the stupid yellow crayon. I thought I could bring her back – stupid, arrogant. I did the one thing a Harris has always been good at – I broke her. So you see, there’s nothing they can do that I haven’t already done in my head. It won’t be enough. It never could be.

“Are you satisfied now? Do you have your answers? Please, Giles. Please, just go and lie to them. You thought I was dead before. You’ve already done your grieving. This time, let the Council finish the job.


	7. Memento Mori: Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xander remembers

_  
**Memento Mori: Part 6**   
_   


Giles has gone. Again. The fact that I practically shoved him out of the room is immaterial. I thought he’d struggle. I thought he’d fight. But he just looked at me, a mixture of pity and frustration and anger on his face, and he walked away. It’s a practiced move and I don’t really deserve anything more.

I don’t understand how it all went so wrong. When did it get so dark? We were just kids who had this huge, staggering secret and thought we could make a difference. Thought it could make a difference to us. We could save the world. How cool in the scale of cool things was that? One souped-up Valley girl, one shy computer nerd and one go-to boy, trailing behind like a well trained puppy. When did we grow up? When did we become these unrecognisable creatures? The Ice Queen, the Uber-Witch and the Carpenter. I wonder who would play me in the movie.

I pull the thin blanket up round my knees and stare at the locked door. Me and my stupid mouth, always running before it can walk. It’s not Giles’ fault, but that didn’t stop me blaming him. I know there was just enough truth in my rant to hurt him, to get under that famous British reserve and I’m kind of surprised that I didn’t realise how much him leaving us had rankled, until it all came out. I sit and stare at the door and wish that he’d come back so that I can apologise. It’s another good Harris trait – hurt first, say sorry later. The thought makes me shiver and I curl up tighter, like the act of being small can make it all go away. If only it was that simple.

I close my eyes, trying to make sense of it all. Trying to find some safety in the dark. But there’s no sanctuary here, no asylum to be found; just the echo of cries and screams and pleading and I want to run as far and as fast as I can, but I feel as if I’m frozen and I force myself to play through the memories. It’s like I’m standing on the outside, bearing witness. Observing the action, detached and distant. I breathe in and sink back into memory and I see the images flicker restlessly through my head.

Warren. Hanging. Crucified by Willow’s hate and grief. The air reeking of magic and burnt flesh, making my head spin. There’s a lurid painting in my mind – Warren’s body and Willow’s hair – both are black and red. I still can’t believe my best friend is capable of this atrocity. There has to be an explanation. There has to be a way back.

Willow. Standing. Outlined against the top of that ridiculous truck, re-enacting her own personal version of Duel. She’s trying to kill us. She actually means to kill us.

Buffy. Fighting. Fluidity and grace in every deadly move. But Willow stands facing her hero. Letting the years of teasing and sidelining and resentment scream to the surface. I almost hear her thoughts. _I am Chosen now and you will follow me_. I remain frozen. Helpless with fear in my struggling denial. She’s already tried to kill us and still I insist things can be saved. That we can all be saved.

I run, the nerd herd at my heels, jabbering and whimpering ‘til I want to break the white hat code and leave them to their own devices. The sky thickens and explodes and my best friend is working on the next apocalypse while I ensure murderers are safe. My own resentment rises and for a moment I feel a kinship. Festering. I start to understand her. To believe that there may be no way back.

Giles. Dying. Trying to drain Willow’s magic and give Buffy time to save the world. Sacrificing himself to let his Slayer live.

I wake. Alone and disconnected. My head aches and the gravestones are cold at my back. There are voices, deep underground, shouting. They sound so far away, but give me the information I need. I know that I’m failing them now, but my intentions are good and I know what needs to be done. I will not fail them in the future.

I run. My lungs bursting with the pressure of urgency and fear of catastrophe. Climbing and stumbling across the green grass and pasture of remembered childhood adventures. The desecration of memory urges me forward, bringing fuel to burnt out legs.

Suddenly she’s there in all her glory and her madness. Her world is black and white, just like it’s always been. Obsidian eyes and porcelain skin – magic, bone-deep, seeping out of her and poisoning the air ‘til I feel like I’m going to suffocate. I force myself to stand my ground and face her. My Willow; so dark, so powerful and still so precious to me. For one long moment I want to prostrate myself at her feet and shelter from the storm; surrendering myself to her darkness and beg her to keep me with her, as friend, lover or whipping boy. As if just being with her will be enough to make the world make sense again,

I hear her voice, oozing with contempt at my struggling and my madness passes.

She hisses, spitting obscenities and hate. This thing isn’t my Willow. I have no idea how to reach her, how to connect and the ties of our friendship shrivel in the heat of her distain.

“Go away, Xander. Go home. Be a good boy and go back to your kennel like a good little puppy.” Her words ooze, honey sweet and curdled with spite. “Go back and hide behind the Slayer’s skirts. She can’t help you. She can’t help anyone. Don’t you see, that’s why I have to do it. You’re hurt and she’s damaged, Giles doesn’t care and Dawn doesn’t exist. Don’t you see, it has to stop. This is my purpose. My calling. I’m Chosen, you see. It hurts too much. They all hurt and I can heal them. I can make it stop.”

Her voice softens, seductive. “But if you want to stay, you can help. You know you like to help?”

I shiver, terrified of her intentions.

“Please, Will. I want to help. I want to help you.” I reach towards her and the magic flares, leaving cuts across my face and chest and for a moment I stagger backwards. But I have to try and I force myself forward again. “Please, Will, it’s me. You know I love you. Come back to me, please, come back.” I look to see if my pleas have reached her and for an instant I hope.

“Is that the master plan? You’re going to stop me by telling me that you _love me_?” There’s such contempt in her voice and she uses my words against me like a whip. My hope vanishes and I despair as the magic builds again.

She closes her eyes, shutting me out, and she starts to chant. Sacred words. Arcane words. Words of power and destruction. I’ve nothing left to reach her but powerless words of my own. I try again. Talking nonsense. Memories of our childhood and friendship. Of foolishness and love; of cartoons and crayons and all the things that make us who we are. I feel her spells reaching outwards, calling up horror and death. Her body jerks and I see her slump as the magic gathers momentum.

“Please Will. You have to stop. Don’t you understand, you’re going to kill yourself? Please, please, you can’t die.”

I struggle forward, finally reaching her. Running my fingers through her hair. She tries to fight, but the magic binds her, draining her to fuel its intention. “Please Willow, don’t leave me.”

Her eyes open, suddenly aware, and she sees me. Her hair tinged with red and I dare to hope again. “I love you Willow. Please, come back to me.”

“Xander?” She struggles to focus and looks at me suddenly with something like pity in her eyes. “Love you. Forgive me.” Her body jerks back and her eyes and hair are black. The spell surges and I realise there is no return this time. My hands slide up her neck and I stare at them, detached and disconnected. I can hear the temple behind me, erupting from the broken earth and I look back to my fingers – red and meaty against the delicate paleness of her neck.

So, this is my time to save the world? God help me, please. Give me another choice.

One more flare of magic and she is stretched taut in my hands. I’m try to hold her down and pulling her towards me, trying to break the grip of the spell and bring her back to me. But she’s shaking like she’s going to shatter in my hold and I know that it’s far too late. And I grasp and I grip and I squeeze and I twist and I break. I kill my best friend and I want to die. I hope the world is grateful.

The roar in the air and in my head subsides and I crash to the ground, cradling her, willing the life back into a broken shell.

“I love you Willow. Please. Don’t forgive me.”

  
There’s someone crying. Sorrow and pain etched into the fabric of skin and bone and I open my eyes and realise that my face is soaked and my arms are bloody where my nails have finally succeeded. I wipe away the tears and then smear the blood across the surface of my wrists, hissing where salt meets tattered flesh. I stare at the picture – bloodied skin against the black wool of the old blanket round my knees. Black and red - Warren’s body and Willow’s hair. And I raise my head and stare at the door of the cell and I sit and wonder about the nature of love and hate; mercy and justice; innocence and guilt. And I wait for Giles to come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _There’s a little bit of dialogue from Grave in this, however it is just a little bit – mainly because I’ve never really liked the scripting in that episode, so I decided to elbow Joss aside for a bit and write my own dialogue! See, megalomania has well and truly set in. I’m up to my knees in white cats now…._


	8. Memento Mori: Part 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Giles comes back and Xander opens up a bit

_  
**Memento Mori: Part 7**   
_   


Giles is back. He looks anxious. Even more so than last time. I wonder if something else has happened, or if it’s just bottled up angst from our last encounter. He’s sitting looking at the floor, tracing the edge of a flagstone with his shoe. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him at such a loss. Giles at a loss – that noise is another part of my foundations giving way.

I sit and watch him, as he perches uncomfortably on the edge of the hard chair and for the first time I actually notice how low down my bed is. Even with Giles seated, I have to look up at him, and I can’t help giving another point to the Council for using something so simple to make a point about status and power. Giles is obviously conscious of the manipulation and he shifts forward slightly like he’s trying to bridge the gap between us and for a moment I think he’s going to leave the chair and sit beside me on the edge of bed. But then he subsides and goes back to staring at the floor, and I don’t know whether I feel sorrow or relief as the moment passes.

The silence is beginning to really bug me. If he’s not going to talk then I don’t know why the hell he’s here. But since he is, maybe I need to start the ball rolling.

“Can you do me a favour?" He looks up, startled – both by the break in the silence and by the question. Before he can answer, I plough on, desperate to get this out before I die of embarrassment. “Do you think you could get me some clean clothes? I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with these,” I glance down at the utilitarian pants and shirt, “but they’re beginning to get a little grubby.” I hate to have to ask for something so basic, but beggars can’t be choosers and I’ll beg if I have to. It’s funny how pride is the first thing to go when you can’t even go to the toilet without feeling that you’re being watched. “Even a clean pair of boxers would be good. There’s only so many times a man can wash and wear his own underwear before he starts to have serious psychological issues. But no tweed, if that’s possible and I’d rather not have one of those orange jumpsuit things. I don’t think they’d go with my complexion.” I know I’m babbling. Filling the space. But Giles seems to grasp it like a lifeline – a manifestation of almost normality.

“Of course. I’m sorry, I should have seen to it earlier. You should have said something before.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t really in a sartorial space last time we met.”

“Well, no. Possibly not.” He smiles ruefully, but can’t hide his surprise that I do actually have a vocabulary. He looks around, as if worried that Travers is going to appear behind him in a puff of smoke, and then seemingly reassured, he reaches into his jacket pocket. I almost expect a rabbit, but this is even better – a hip flask. I forget that he really can do magic. He doesn’t say anything, just unscrews the top and offers the flask to me.

I probably shouldn’t. I need to keep a clear head. But then a little voice asks me: what for? What the hell, I can’t refuse the only kind gesture I’ve had in days. I take a tentative sip, then another – slowly savouring the flavour and the heat. Of course it would be the good stuff. There’s peat and smoke and hints of autumn and I wonder what the weather’s like outside. “Thank you.”

He smiles, takes a drink himself and screws the top on carefully, placing the flask on the floor between us. The ritual over, the atmosphere seems easier. The air, less thick.

“Xander, I do need to ask you what happened. You know I will do everything I can, to be of assistance. But I have to tell you that I am also charged to be the Council’s emissary. Reluctantly, I admit, but nevertheless. Better me than Travers." He pauses for a moment, searching for a way to continue and again I wonder at the sight of Giles lost for words.

“Whatever they want, the answer is 'No'. Tell them to stop playing their mind games and get on with the execution. Or don’t they have the stomach for it? Perhaps they should have left me my belt.” Giles winces at the implication.

“They don’t want you executed. Despite their harshness, they do realise why you did what you did. That under the circumstances there was no alternative. They want you to take on a job for them. They want you to go to Africa. To Sierre Leone. Some of the local Council operatives have gone missing and they don’t know why. They can’t send someone in by normal channels, in case they get targeted. There’s a charity sending people to build a new school in the area. With your construction skills, it would seem the perfect cover.”

“Very neat. No need for a public execution when you can arrange a private suicide mission. I don’t suppose I have much choice, do I?" Giles rubs the back of his neck, trying to ease the obvious tension.

“To be honest, I fear the options are rather limited at present. “ He pauses, leans forward and picks up the flask again, staring at it like the words he’s searching for might be embossed on the metal. I follow his gaze and the reflections off the caged light, dazzle and shine. I think the flask is silver. I’m sure if I looked at the bottom, I’d find those little indentations in the metal telling me about its origin and history. They might as well be in Sumerian for all they’d mean to me. But Giles, he’d understand the code. Like it’s in his blood or something. The flask is probably a family heirloom and I watch as strong fingers trace up the side and follow the delicate pattern of leaves engraved across the neck. I think there are initials carved into the top, but it seems too personal to check. Finally he seems to find the answers he needs and he puts the flask back between us, on the floor and I take a breath, waiting for the questions to start.

“I’m sorry, you probably think I’m being crass, but I need you to talk to me. I need to understand. Please, Xander. Will you talk to me?” He’s asking so gently, so compassionately and I can feel my defences crumbling. Please don’t let him touch me; I don’t think I could stand it.

He gets up slowly, like he doesn’t want to spook me and he moves away towards the door, giving me the space I need. It’s such a small gesture, but it’s enough to make my heart slow down and my chest lighten. I know I have to do this. That Giles deserves to know the truth. I glance up and he’s still standing by the door, watching. Putting his training into practice. He catches my eye and holds my gaze and I feel so naked.

“I know this is hard for you. But please, Xander, talk to me. I’m not going to turn my back. Not again.”

For a moment I want to cry. I don’t remember him ever taking this time, this care, this amount of trouble before. I want to ask him why he didn’t come to the wedding, but I’m afraid of what he’ll say.

“Just take your time and tell me everything you can.”

I struggle to begin and the words come slowly, and then suddenly I just can’t stop. The shooting. Warren dead. Willow and the truck. The attack at the magic box. Willow taking Giles’ magic. The fire ball. Buffy and Dawn in the hole. Willow on the Bluff. The words just pour from me and I don’t think I could stop if I tried. By the time I finish, the sweat is running down my back. It’s one thing running through the scenes in my head, but this is so personal – everything on display. My hands are shaking and he offers me the flask again. He’s frowning, like he’s trying to catch a thought that won’t quite form, and my mind wanders. “Have they buried her yet?” He looks confused. “Tara. Have they buried her yet? Her death. It’s what started it all. I just wondered….”

“Yes. Yes, of course. We couldn’t reach her parents, but I’m not sure they would care very much, to be honest. We made sure she was put to rest with dignity and honour.” He pauses for a moment, taking a breath before continuing. “She’s buried in the same section as Jenny. It felt right, somehow.” He stops again, and I realise that he’s gathering his strength. “We set up a head stone for you both. You and Willow. I thought you’d both want to be together. It’s next to Tara.”

I feel like I’m suffocating and my hands curl around the old blanket ‘til I feel the threads begin to give way. I have a grave stone. For some reason the revelation shocks me and I shiver, the memory of too many losses suddenly crowded in my mind and for a moment I have to fight for control. “Do you think they’d let me send flowers? To pay my respects to Tara. Its just I don’t know where my wallet is. To pay for flowers, I mean.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll make sure it happens.”

“Don’t suppose I should send flowers to Wills. Maybe a pound of flesh.” He’s making little tutting noises and I feel my courage start to wither, when the flask catches my eye again. I lean forward and my hand hovers over the top, like I’m asking for permission and I let go of the breath I didn’t realise I was holding when Giles smiles and nods. I settle back on the bed, shifting until my back is hard against the wall and my feet are tucked up out of the way. I take a small but satisfying pull at the nectar in my hand and it seems to oil the pathways to the dustier corners of my head and something like fresh air starts to percolate through my brain.

“I’ve got another question.” Giles nods again, as he comes back and sits in front of me and he’s looking at me, so intent and expectant and suddenly I feel like I’m probably being stupid.

“It’s strange. The three days I was here on my own, I just wanted to know what was behind the door. Why I was here. You know?"

He’s still staring at me, and I feel like I’m back to being a student and he’s trying to coax the answer to a difficult question out of me.

“When I got taken into the other room, I was so damn scared, but also relieved that something was actually happening. That I could put a name to what was going on. I’ve just realised that I never stopped to question anything. But why the Council, Giles? Why am I here? How did they know?"

Giles smiles, but there’s real effort behind the gesture, like he’s as tired as I feel. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask that. I only found out myself, after I left you before. It’s actually quite simple. They felt the rise of Willow’s power, just as the Coven did. And they sent a team to investigate. From what I’ve been told, I understand that they arrived just after you….” He stops and looks blindly at the floor, and I lean forward and hand him the flask.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Giles look so grateful and I decide to ease the tension. “You mean they arrived just after I killed Willow.”

He sighs and looks so relieved. “Yes, after you stopped her. You were in shock and wouldn’t let go of her body, so they took you both. Xander, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it. The body parts of a witch as strong as Willow would be a powerful talisman for some of the darker practitioners of magic. The Council couldn’t afford to let her fall into the wrong hands. So they acted.”

“Have you seen her? The body, I mean.”

“No, I didn’t see her. Travers had her cremated.” For a moment I can't breath as Giles' answer cuts through me. Nails hover over damaged wrists and I have to force my hands to settle back onto the torn blanket before I can look at Giles and really think about what he said. It’s so strange, I can almost see the logic in the Council's argument. But the fact that they have the power to do such a thing makes my head swim. What about her parents? Won’t they wonder where she went? Then I realise that Sunnydale denial syndrome will kick in, just like always, and no one will realise how guilty I am.

“I still don’t understand why they took me. I murdered someone, Giles. I thought about it and I had intent and I carried it through. The Council can’t just pretend that didn’t happen, however understandable they might think it was.”

“Xander, you killed someone to prevent an apocalypse. How would you explain that to a normal court? Can you see yourself giving evidence about Willow’s magic, to a normal jury? For once I believe Travers had good intentions, even if his methods are a little distasteful. Could you have faced Buffy and Dawn with what you did? With what you had to do?"

“No. You know I couldn’t. Better for them to believe I’m dead.”

“I don’t agree, but yes, that seems to be the general idea. The Council get a Slayer who’s not distracted by friends exploring powers of their own, and they get an operative for some of their dirtier work.”

“And if I say no to their offer?”

“As I said before, I’m not sure that there are very many options. But to honest, I don’t know.” He pauses for the smallest moment before finishing. “But I can guess.”

“Yeah, so can I. It’s funny - of all the things I thought could happen in my fucked up life, I never thought I’d get a job offer from Travers. Bet he never thought he’d have to offer a job to someone like me. Not Council born and bred and all that shit."

“Travers is a lot of things, but he’s not stupid. Don’t be deceived. His reasons for not turning you over to the authorities are anything but altruistic. That bit of grandstanding with the book was a prime example. He needed to unlock your memories so that you would know what happened. So you would know why you can’t go back. But there was no need for the shock tactics. There was no need for the show trial. He can’t resist the chance to play the puppeteer, even when his intentions are basically good. Always remember that.”

I nod and reach for the flask again, and my hand is trembling at the thought of Travers pulling at my strings. But Giles reaches out and grasps my hand gently before I can finish the movement. “Perhaps something a little softer would be a good idea for a while, yes?”

I stare at our hands for a moment. Mine is tanned and callused from hours on construction sites, while Giles’ is paler and somehow more refined. A hand designed for turning pages and writing down great thoughts. He disengages slowly and for a moment I mourn the loss of contact. But as his hand rests back on his knee I notice it is callused too, and I remember that Giles can wield a sword as well as a pen. Somehow the thought gives me back a little of my courage, and I raise my head and grin at him.

“Right, so they’re just going to let us waltz out of here and go down to the Watcher’s commissary or dining hall or cafeteria, or whatever the hell they call it.”

Giles grins back. “Somehow, I don’t think Travers would admit to having anything so pedestrian as a cafeteria. I think room service is the order of the day, and despite the Council’s harshness, there is definitely one thing that they would never dream of denying someone, whatever their position. So, what do you think? Shall I ask for some tea?

For a moment I want to laugh at the bizarreness of the question, but I look back at Giles and he’s so serious and earnest and I can’t help but nod. Giles and tea – symbols of tantalising normality. And somewhere deep inside of me, a foundation stone begins to slide slowly back into place.


	9. Memento Mori: Part 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Giles and Xander drink tea and talk some more.

_  
**Momento Mori: Part 8**   
_   


Giles must have some authority in this mad house. He asked for tea. Just banged on the door and detailed his requirements to my jailer. I wish I’d thought of trying that. Maybe he used the secret Watcher’s handshake and I just didn’t notice. I have to admit I’d prefer coffee, but I’m not going to complain about anything that breaks up the normal tedious routine. He returns to the chair and we do small talk until the tea arrives. There aren’t any cookies – his clout obviously only goes so far, but the tea comes complete with teapot and fine, white china cups. I wonder if that’s standard issue for all ‘guests’ of the Council, or if they just don’t own anything as basic a mug. Giles pours the tea and then warms his hands round the cup, obviously working through his thoughts on what I’ve told him so far. I wait, and entertain myself with looking at the metal tea tray. It’s old and a little bit battered round the edges, but I can just make out a faded pattern of yellow and white flowers on the base. I think they’re daffodils, but the picture is so scored from the weight of a thousand teapots that it’s difficult to be sure. I glance back up at Giles, but he’s still staring into his tea, like it could tell him his future and eventually I can’t stand it any longer.

“Well, if you’re going to start with the long pauses again, then I guess I’ll have to make a noise. It’s what I’m supposed to be good at.” Giles looks up and for a moment I expect a reprimand, like I’ve been caught running in the corridor, but he just smiles, acknowledging the hit and it gives me the courage to continue. “There’s another question that’s been bugging me. Well, actually there are lots of questions bugging me, now that my brain seems to have come back to life, but I’ll settle for one answer at a time. Earlier, when we talked about Travers – when you warned me to be on my guard; wasn’t it just a bit indiscreet? I mean, I know you’ve had trouble with him before. I don’t want to make things worse. It’s just, I assumed they’d be listening to us, or watching us, or both, but I’ve not found any mics or cameras.” Giles stares at me, surprised, but I keep going before he can say anything. “So, I guess that means they’re probably using less conventional surveillance?” An expression flickers across Giles’ face which I can’t quite interpret, and then he nods.

“Yes, quite correct. The Council would never dream of using anything as banal as technology. They were using a simple scrying spell to start with, which allowed them to keep a watch on you. It’s what they do, after all. However, they seem to have lifted the spell since your memories came back. It’s as if they think they don’t need to bother any more. That you want to be punished and therefore you aren’t going to run. After all, where would you go?” I nod slowly. The explanation makes sense, but I’m still surprised that Travers isn’t taking the opportunity to snoop on what Giles might be saying. I start to interrupt, but he cuts me off. “I have some magical ability of my own, if you remember. They obviously got one of their junior casters to do the scrying spell and my magic, in this case, is a little more sophisticated. It certainly won’t be visible to someone of a lower level. If they reactivate the spell, all they will see is us sitting, drinking tea and chatting.

“Cool, it’s like the video loop in Speed, so the Dennis Hopper doesn’t know Keanu is saving the day.” Giles looks at me, perplexed and all of a sudden I’m sixteen and in the library. The ‘W’ word dances through my thoughts.

“I have another question. Well two actually, if you don’t mind?” Giles looks surprised that I feel I need to ask permission, but it’s amazing how the psychology of being confined fucks with your head.

“Of course. You should know that you can ask me anything. Whether I can answer is another matter.” He smiles ruefully, fully aware of his own delicate status within the Council.

“Where are we? I mean, I get we’re in some big impressive Council property, complete with its own private prison wing. Suppose that could be a selling point in some circles. But where actually are we? I know I should have asked earlier, but the questions have been kind of stacking up in my head”

“England.” He looks shocked that I didn’t know, and obviously I should have realised. Where else could it be? “Devon, to be precise. We’re in one of the older Council properties in Devon. It’s been around since Tudor times and has passed from one Council head to another over the centuries. I suppose you could say it’s one of the perks of the job.” He grins suddenly. “I believe the heating bills are quite shocking.” I grin back and start to absorb that I’m not even in the States any more. I don’t have any papers so even if I escaped, I probably don’t officially exist to the English authorities.

Giles interrupts my speculation. “You said you had two questions?”

“What? Oh yeah. What’s with the strong, silent treatment from the guard guy? I can’t get a word out of him.” Giles glances at the door before turning back to face me.

“I’m afraid he can’t speak. He’s mute. The Council has a policy of employing mutes as servants because they can’t recount what’s said. Back in the middle ages, I understand they used to forcibly remove tongues, but in these more enlightened times they simply employ the already afflicted.” I’m all ready to start a rant about how barbaric the Council is when something hits me and it’s so blindingly obvious, I think I must have missed something.

“Umm, Giles. Just because the guy can’t speak, doesn’t mean he can’t write down what he hears. He’s obviously not deaf, so maybe he can’t write. Is that it?” Giles just smiles and it feels like the sun has come out. “No, he’s not deaf and yes he can most definitely write. Fortunately Travers tends to disregard the domestic class, and Mr Michaels and I have known each other for a very long time. He spends much of his time waiting at the Council’s High Table.” He pauses for a moment, contemplating his tea and takes a fastidious sip before looking back at me. “I’m sure he hears all sorts of interesting things.” Damn, he’d make a good poker player. He obviously has something up his sleeve, but you’d never know it to look at him, and for a moment I feel a surge of hope that somehow there’s an end to this madness. But it’s just for a moment, before I realise that it doesn’t change the basic fact that Willow’s dead. That I killed her.

I stare at the cup and suddenly the sight of the fine white china makes my hands start to shake. I can feel it, delicate and fragile under my big clumsy fingers. So easy to shatter. So simple to break. I try to stop the trembling, but my hands feel like they belong to someone else. Delicate white china – delicate pale skin – meaty, callused fingers shaking and gripping and squeezing and breaking. I think Giles is talking. I can see his mouth moving out of the corner of my eye, but all I can hear is the malicious whispering in my head.

 _“That’s what you did, Xan. She was so delicate. So fragile. And you crushed her. Just - like – that.”_

I can’t control the shaking and the cup teeters for a moment and then tumbles to the floor – shattering on the hard flags – white fragments scattered across hard stone, and I hear the sickening crack of bone and the shattering of faith and friendship and love. I’m struggling for breath and the whispering gets more insistent.

 _“Just like that. Just like you did to me, remember. You can’t fix things, not really – you can only break them. Put them together with sticking plaster and glue. Play the good little carpenter, but you can only patch up the holes, so many times and you know they’ll come back. They always come back. It’s what you do. Keeps you in work. Keeps you needed. They don’t know you break things in the first place. But I know. And you know. And they – they started to suspect. What you did to the cup, what you did to her – it’s all the same. You broke them. Just…like…that.”_

The whispering dies away, but there’s an echo running through my brain. _“Guilty…guilty…always been guilty.”_

I can hear a voice, urgent and insistent and it’s fighting with the echo – demanding to be heard. I tear my gaze away from the shattered china and Giles is standing over me, his hand hovering above my shoulder, concern clear on his face. God, I don’t know how he can stand to be in the same room as me. If he knew the whole truth. If he knew the extent of my crimes. If he knew what I was really capable of.

“Xander what are you talking about? What crimes? What do you mean?”

I didn’t realise I was speaking out loud, but he’s looking at me and I feel like a bug under a microscope and all at once I want him to see me as I really am.

“Xander, talk to me. What crimes?”

“Jesse. I killed Jesse. Stuck a piece of wood right through and didn’t even bother to try to understand. I loved him so much and I murdered him. Just like Willow. I tried to rape Buffy. Did you know that? I blamed it on the hyena. But I enjoyed it. Her helplessness and her fear. I wanted to taste them. Possession suits me. Every wonder why it always happened to me? The spells found something in me. Already twisted and tainted. Ethan knew. Put a gun in my hand and he knew what I could do with it. How dangerous I was if I got the chance. I sent Angel to Hell. I did it deliberately. I wanted him to suffer. To be punished for what he’d done. But mostly, I wanted another chance with Buffy. Wanted my time in her spotlight. Wanted to taste her lust and her power. I led my class to its death. I knew they wouldn’t all survive the Ascension. I treated them as collateral damage. I got them killed and I walked away. I hated the girls for leaving me. For going to college and wiping their feet on our friendship. I wanted them to fail. To come down to my level. And I laughed when Spike got chipped. Some big bad. Welcome to the real world. Join us here in the gutter and wallow in the helplessness. I wanted to kill Dawn. To stop Glory, it was the only sensible option. She didn’t exist before and she didn’t matter to me. She let Buffy die and I’ll never forgive her for that. And if that’s not enough, I wanted Warren and co to win. Not the war, just a few of the battles. Just enough to prove that geeks can sometimes beat the odds. They tormented Buffy and I stood by and cheered."

Suddenly it’s like there’s no oxygen in the room and I feel like my chest is burning. For a moment I close my eyes and concentrate on the simple act of breathing in and out before I force myself back to reality and look back at Giles. “These are my crimes, Giles. I killed Willow. It doesn’t matter what you do. You can’t mend something that’s always been flawed. Go away Giles. I’m not worth saving. I never was.”

“I believe you are.” His voice is soft and full of compassion and my stomach heaves. I barely make it to the toilet before the last pathetic meal reappears, laced with tea and 20 year old Malt. I press my head against the cool surface of the cistern and regret the missing curtain. But Giles has seen the worst of me now. There’s no more to expose.

I can hear a tap running and then a glass of water appears in front of me, held in strong hands, and I rinse and spit out of habit. A damp towel follows and as I pat my face, I can feel a hand rubbing circles on my back. It’s strangely intimate and for a moment I just want to sit there and float.

“Sorry.” I can only croak, my throat as raw as the emotions in my head. I try to gather up the tatters of my dignity and sit back slowly. Giles takes me by the elbow and for a moment I resist his ministrations. But it’s too seductive – being cared for, having someone worry about your welfare. He guides me back to the bed and I slump, boneless, against the wall, refusing to meet his eye.

“Xander, I want you to listen to me. I can’t begin to guess what’s going through your mind at this moment. But I need to ask you one thing, and I need you to answer honestly. Do you trust my judgement?”

The answer comes to my lips without thought. Giles is the adult. The Watcher. The father. I may have disagreed with a lot of things he’s done, but I’ve always believed he thought he was doing them for the right reasons. Whatever the outcome. “You know I do. It’s me I don’t trust.” He smiles gently and takes my hand.

“I trust you. You’re a good man. And you have friends who believe in you. They always have.” He removes his hand and my palm feels empty. Strange how one little piece of contact can hurt so much.

He’s sitting staring at me, looking determined. “Xander, all those things you said. They’re not true." I start to deny him but he cuts me off. “Trust me. Yes, they happened. And some of them were terrible. But you didn’t instigate them. You didn’t make them happen and you certainly didn’t take pleasure in some of the outcomes. In all cases you either did the best you could in a difficult situation, or else you were actively helping your friends. Helping me. Please hear me out.” I shut my mouth and try to follow what he’s saying. “There’s something very wrong here. Not just the obvious situation of Willow and her magic, and the fact that we thought you were dead. But something deeper. Your self perception is fundamentally skewed and we need to understand why. You aren’t the monster you see in your head. You never were. Before all this happened, if I’d asked you to talk about Jesse’s death, or the hyena, or any off the other incidents, you would have told me what happened and how it happened. There would have been reasons and yes, in some cases there would have been guilt, however unfounded. But your litany of crimes is so far removed from reality, as to be unrecognisable.”

“But I remember those things. I remember calculating the odds at Graduation and putting Larry and his jock buddies in the front line. I remember loving the feel of the gun in my hands at Halloween. Loving the power it gave me.”

“Exactly. You remember. And I’m seriously beginning to doubt your memories. There’s something very odd happening. I’m beginning to think that exposure to the Librum Veritas has somehow tainted your memories. Twisted your perceptions of past actions. The magic contained in the book is ancient and extremely powerful. I’m speculating, but I believe the power of the magic, combined with the shock of such a traumatic memory re-emerging, has somehow infected the rest of your memories. You’ve been exposed to a lot of spells over the years and the reaction of one type of magic with another is difficult to predict. It has been known to have unforeseen consequences.”

He’s back on his feet, pacing the length of the small room and then he stops, and stares at the wall behind me like it’s his own personal Rosetta Stone. He moves back to perch on the edge of the chair and stares at me intently. “You talked earlier about my battle with Willow in the Magic Box. About how she drained my magic and left me to die? How did you know Xander? How did you know what had happened? You weren’t there.”

I’m not sure where he’s going with this, but he’s got that look on his face like that big brain of his has just thought of something important, and I try to concentrate and answer his question, even though I’m not quite sure what he’s asking.

“Well, I assume I heard Anya telling Buffy and Dawn, when they were down the hole, you know. I can’t tell you what she said, but I must have heard it. Otherwise I wouldn’t know and now I’m confused. Is this mixed up with the memory weirdness?”

“To be honest, I don’t know. It’s an inconsistency I can’t at present reconcile. But I’m sure the explanation will present itself.” He smiles at me. "I believe, in best Scooby fashion, that research is called for. It’s many years since I studied the Librum Veritas and I need to refresh my memory.”

“I don’t suppose they’d let me out of this shoebox to help you?” God, I don’t believe I’m actually offering to help do research, but anything to get out of this damn room. Giles smiles and I can see he appreciates the irony.

“I’m afraid that’s doubtful. But I will do what I can about getting you some other clothes and some better food.” He stands slowly, like so much concentration has sapped his strength and as he moves forward there’s a crunching noise as his shoe hits part of the broken cup. He looks down at the shattered china and I follow his gaze, and realise that he’s staring at the raw sharp edge of one of the bigger shards.

“It’s alright, Giles. I’m not going to do anything stupid. I’ve had my freak out. I don’t think I’ve got the energy for suicide by tea cup right now”. He looks up at me, flushing a little. Obviously embarrassed that his thoughts are so transparent, but then he nods.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Despite his words, he crouches down and starts to gather the pieces onto the old tray. “There’s no point in leaving a mess and having you hurt yourself by accident.” It’s another small gesture of care and I have to take a deep breath before I join him on the floor and chase down the scattered fragments. I can’t help staring at the tiny pieces of china heaped on the battered tray and I wonder if I could just piece them back together, then perhaps everything would make sense again. There’s a hand on my shoulder and I pull myself out of my reverie as Giles stands up, the tray balanced in one hand. Suddenly there’s too much distance between us, and I rise in a hurry and push down my panic as I realise that he’s going to leave me alone.

“While I’m gone, I would advise you to try to get some rest and regain some strength. I will tell the Council that you are considering their job offer, but would like to sleep on it. I will be back in the morning, or sooner if I uncover anything of interest.”

He turns to go and I have to stop myself begging him not to leave me. The door clangs and as I hear the bolt slip home the room seems to shrink around me. I sink down onto the bed and stare at the floor, where the tray had sat and for a moment I see an image of the cup, delicate and fragile and whole and then I blink and the image vanishes like a ghost.

It will be hours before Giles is back, so I curl up on the blankets and take his advice, and seek sanctuary in the darkness.


	10. Memento Mori: Part 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xander’s down, so I thought I’d kick him again

_  
**Memento Mori: Part 9**   
_   


_“Xander. Xander, can you hear me? Wake up. Please, you’ve got to wake up.”_ My eyes flutter open, blinking slowly and I struggle up from sleep. I’ve been dreaming about Willow again and my stomach knots with renewed pain.

 _“Xander, can you hear me?”_

I haul myself upright, the whispers in my head shaking me from sleep, and I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for hours.

 _“Please, Xander? You must hear me.”_

The voice is back and my stomach heaves and I lurch forward, momentum taking me to the floor, on my knees, blankets tangled in a mess around my feet.

 _“Well, that was elegant. I’ll give you four points for the dismount, but you need to work on your presentation.”_

Now I know I’m really going crazy. Travers implied it before, in the Council chamber, but now I believe him. God, I hate it when he’s right, the miserable, superior, tweed wearing toad. Hearing voices – one was bad enough, but two…..that’s definitely the first step on the road to Bedlam. The Council probably have a permanent suite booked for upstart hangers-on and non-conformist Watchers. So... voices? Check. It’ll be visions next, I suppose. Or maybe speaking in tongues. Ooh, I always wanted to be good at languages. That’s it: learn a language, see the world - from the inside of a prison cell. Oh shit, I really am going mad. But am I mad if I can recognise the signs of madness? Or is the insanity, that I can rationalise why I can’t be mad? Willow would know. She’s the brain. Was the brain. Now it’s just me – the man with no brain. God I’m tired. I just want to go back to sleep. Maybe I can just curl up right here on the floor……

 _“Xander.”_

“Stop it.” I pull the blanket up round my ears, like it will block out the voice. “It’s bad enough when you sound like Jesse, but now you have to sound like her. Who’s it going to be next? Who else have I got killed – Miss Calendar, Tara, Larry? Please, make all the accusations you want, but don’t sound like her. Please don’t sound like her. I realise that I’m talking to myself, pleading with my subconscious, but there’s no one around to hear. Just me and the voices in my head.

 _“Xander. Have you finished having your wig? Can we actually talk now?”_

“Willow?” I hardly dare to whisper her name. “Willow, is that you?” My voice hitches and the air compresses around me, thick as treacle. “Where are you?”

 _“I don’t know. It’s black and I don’t think I’m conscious. But it’s not as black as it was. It feels like it’s been dark for so long. I can feel things – thoughts, emotions, just out of reach. I feel like I’ve been asleep. Like I’ve been floating. Then suddenly I felt lighter and I can hear things in my head. But they come and go, like a signal fading in and out. I didn’t know if they were real.”_

I want to interrupt, to talk to her, but I’m scared that the voice will disappear. I’m scared that it isn’t real. I force myself to silence and start to drown in the voice.

 _“And I think I’ve been dreaming. I saw the Hellmouth open and swallow me whole. She was calling all her children and gorging on their pain. I thought I was the last, but then I felt you. You feel so warm, so close. You feel so sad. Talk to me Xander. Tell me why you’re sad.”_

I’m sitting curled up on the cold stone flags, the blanket pulled tight around my shoulders and the tears are streaming silently down my face and soaking into the worn black wool. I can hear my Willow and I want to ask a question, but I’m so terrified of the answer that I can’t bring myself to speak.

 _“Xander, talk to me.”_

“Willow?” Her name lingers on my tongue, sweet as honey. “Are you real?”

 _“Real? Of course I’m real. Well, I think I’m real. I mean, I can feel you and I know I’m talking to you in your head – but hey, been there, done that. So, if by real, you mean, 'are you a disembodied voice who can have telepathic conversations with her best friend' then darn tooting I’m real. Why wouldn’t I be?”_

“I’ve been hearing voices. I thought I was hearing things. That you were a ghost, come back to haunt me.”

 _“Why would I want to haunt you? Unless I was doing it in a cute, Caspery type way.”_

“You’re dead, Wills. I killed you. I remember killing you. I’m sorry, you were so far gone and I couldn’t reach you. You were going to end the world and I had to choose. I’m sorry. I had to choose.”

There’s another voice breaking through, like static. It’s low and insidious and Jesse is back, like a demon on my shoulder. _“Guilty, guilty…..You’ll never be free of her. You know that. You deserve that. She’ll always be with you. Just like me. You’ll always carry her with you. She’ll always tell you what you want to hear. It’s what you crave. It’s what you need.”_

 _“Xander, listen to me. Please, you must listen. I’m not a ghost. I’m sure of that. Everything is kind of hazy, but there’s flashes of things. Like memories. They come and go, like lights in my head. I remember you. How could I forget you. You didn’t kill me. I’m here, wherever here is, and I’m me. I’m still me. You saved me, Xander. You stood up to me and you talked me down and you saved me. You told me that you loved me and you saved me. And you held me and you let me cry.”_

The tears still fall, silent as snow on a winter’s night and I don’t have the strength to push them aside. It’s everything I could ever want. My Willow, telling me that it’s all okay. It’s so perfect. Just listening to her voice…..perfect. Every word, every phrase, every inflection conjures up my Willow. So perfect…….perfect. I can feel my heart start to race and my head begins to pound in time. It’s too perfect and I think I hear Jesse chuckle darkly in my ear. I want to believe. I want to believe so badly, but the Jesse voice is right. She’s dead. She isn’t real and I’ve got to stop it. Stop it, before I start to believe. I really want to believe…..

“No! Stop it. Please. I’m not listening to you. I can’t listen to you. You’re dead. You’re both dead. I killed you both. You’re not real. You’re just voices in my head.”

 _“Xander. Please, listen to me.”_

The voice won’t stop. It’s so like her, that I want to die. I start to shake and the blanket slides back down around my knees and I’m so cold. I grab hold of a frayed edge and begin to pull it back up, when I stop and stare at the nail marks on the inside of my arms. The voice whispers on, pleading and demanding my attention and I need to make it stop. I dig my nails deep into the biggest mark ‘til the scab comes loose and the blood starts to ooze. The pain makes me gasp. But it’s good. It’s tangible. It’s real.

“You’re not real.” I raise myself onto my knees, praying and pleading to the empty air. “You’re dead. Please forgive me, but you’re dead.”

 _“Xander….”_ The voice is fainter now – fading like a drained battery. _“Please listen….”_ Then it’s gone. Like someone flicked off a switch. And suddenly I’m alone again.

The silence blankets the room, thick and warm and heavy and I feel like I’m suffocating. There’s an ache in my gut and as I struggle for breath, I can feel it crawling relentlessly up to my chest, and I try to hold it in. But the momentum is too strong, and then the silence shatters and I’m sobbing again and I don’t know if I’ll ever stop. I wanted to believe. Just for a moment, I thought it was real. That she was real. But I know it’s in my head. The Council don’t need to kill me. They don’t need to send me on a suicide mission. I’m killing myself, inch by exquisite inch and I just wish it was over. Then it would stop. Then I’d be with her. And we’d both be real.

Gradually the storm passes and I slump back, exhausted. The edge of the bunk digs into my back and the cold from the stone flags is seeping into my bones, making them ice. But I don’t move. It seems right. Comfort is a thing of the past. A privilege, not a right and I gave up my rights with the shattering of bone and china. Somehow the thought gives me a strange kind of peace. I can’t fall any further and nothing that happens now can touch me.

I’m floating in a haze of memory, allowing myself to savour the treasured moments, like they’re the best chocolate in the world. The condemned man gets a last sumptuous meal and I’ve got so many meals to enjoy. That will be my real punishment. My fingers trace up my arms, drawing fantasies in the sluggish trail of blood and I continue to float. The time crawls, glacier slow, and I feel the ice settle in my bones. And I refuse to move.

The clanging of the bolt brings me back to the surface and I scramble to my feet, kicking the blanket to the side and pulling down the sleeves on my shirt. I don’t want Giles to see the blood. I don’t want him to give him any more worry. But it’s not Giles. It’s my jailer and he’s on his own. He’s got a tray in his hands and from the smells I think I’m actually going to get some hot food. If only I can keep it down. He doesn’t look at me – just puts the tray on the chair by the bed and turns away. I consider rushing him, but even if I won, I don’t know what I’d do, where I’d go. And someone else would take the blame for my actions. I’m still considering what to do when I realise that he’s back again – this time with a pile of clothes – jeans, T-shirt, boxers, and I realise that Giles has been shopping. There’s an electric razor and if Giles was here I would probably kiss him, so it’s probably as well that he’s not. The Council don’t trust me with razors. I wonder why. I grab hold of the offered pile and I’m about to place it on the bed when he slides a piece of neatly folded paper on top of the clothes. I stop and stare at it for a moment and then look back up at him, but his face is impassive. I put the clothes down carefully and unfold the paper.

 _‘Xander, something has come up. I’ll be back to see you tomorrow, I promise. I didn’t want you to think that I’d left. Don’t agree to anything; don’t do anything, until I see you. I will explain when we next talk. I hope the food and clothes are acceptable. Mr Michaels will procure anything else that you need._

 _Giles.’_

  
It’s strange, knowing Giles has taken the time to tell me that he’s been delayed – so that I wouldn’t worry. I want to ask what's happened, but I realise that the messenger can’t tell me. I read the note again, searching for hidden meanings, but there don’t seem to be any. I speculate about invisible ink, but somehow I don’t think that’s quite Giles’ style. Then I realise that my jailer is still standing there – waiting, watching and as I look back up at him, he reaches out his hand and plucks the paper out of my grasp. I want to protest, but he just shakes his head and looks pointedly at the dinner tray, and turns and leaves the room.

I hear the key turn in the lock and the bolt pushed home. For a moment I just stare at the empty space where he stood. My eyes and throat are sore with crying and for a moment the grief and despair hovers like a great black cloud, and I teeter on the edge of my self-made hell. Then the waft of the hot food gets the better of me and I realise that I can’t fight my battles, or my demons, on an empty stomach. I lift the cover off the plate and there’s an omelette and fries, with a cold can of soda on the side. For the want of anything better to do, I whisper a belated 'thank you' to Giles and to my messenger, and I take his silent advice and start to eat.


	11. Memento Mori: Part 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Giles has some news and he and Xander come to some conclusions

_  
**Memento Mori: Part 10**   
_   


It feels like such a long time since I last saw Giles. I know, rationally, it can’t be more than 24 hours. He promised he’d be back ‘tomorrow’, but it must be ‘tomorrow’ by now. Time is going so slowly, even more so than in those first few days when I didn’t know what was going on. I’ve not really slept, despite Giles instructions. At least, not since I heard the voices. The hot food was nice, although now it’s just sitting in a lump in my stomach and I really don’t want to throw up again. I’m just so tired, but I know that I’m scared to sleep. Scared that the voice will come back. It was so seductive. So alluring. So false. I really wanted to be her hero, her protector and for one sweet moment I almost fooled myself that it was real. And now I need Giles to come back. To bring me down to earth and give me the strength to ignore the voice, if it comes back.

I can’t stop thinking about his note. If I close my eyes I can see it in my head; crisp, angular writing, direct and authoritative. You don’t argue with someone who writes like that. I’ve gone through the wording line by line and I get more confused every time I do it. What’s come up? What’s so urgent? Why doesn’t he want me to do anything ‘til he comes back? If he comes back.

But I can’t think like that. He promised. He didn’t want me to worry. He actually thought about me.

I think back to endless research in the library and the way Giles would huff and puff in irritation at my jokes and my desperate attempts to impress Buffy and make Willow laugh. I just wanted to belong. I wasn’t bothered about annoying Giles. Not then. He’d clean his glasses and make his tea, and it was all part of the game. And it made my girls smile and that was all that mattered. But now, I trace my fingers down the rolled down sleeves of my shirt and feel the hidden wounds underneath, and I wonder what our relationship might have been if we’d both taken that little more care. Just a little more time to find some common ground.

I force myself to my feet and I feel like each bone and joint has aged about 20 years. I guess sitting on a cold stone floor for hours will do that to a body. I stretch and every vertebra seems to pop before settling luxuriously into place. I’ve no idea what time it is. I wonder if Giles can get me my watch back, but that might be pushing it, just a bit. It feels like it should be early morning and I’ve got the sudden urge to wash away the hopelessness and the hurt of last night’s little encounter with my demons. Decision made, I strip down quickly and again I mourn the loss of the curtain. It at least gave the illusion of privacy. But then I remember the frogs and I can see Willow by the creek, backing nervously away from a maniacally grinning Jesse who’s waving a handful of frog spawn at her. He’d told her they were brains and she ran all the way home and wouldn’t speak to him for a week. The memory is so vivid, I feel like I could reach out and touch them. But no, I’ve got to stop it. I won’t go there. I can’t go there. I turn on the taps and the water runs cold at first and then there’s glorious heat and I sluice it over my face and neck before running a cloth over my chest. If anyone wants a free show, then they can have it. It’s not like they haven’t seen me from the inside out. I shut off the taps and let the water run down the drain, willing my hurt to drain away with the flow. But I know it’s still there, caught in the U-Bend, festering and getting more rancid day by day.

I towel off quickly, backing off from the sink before my thoughts get any more twisted. Time to be positive. Time to take back some control. I shave quickly, by touch. No mirrors here – no risk of someone getting a hold of some nasty sharp glass. Who would have thought the Council would be so thoughtful. I grin to myself and grab the pile of clothes Giles sent, and there’s such simple relief in the feel of crisp cotton and soft denim. I’ll never ask for anything complicated in my life again. That’s the one thing I’ve learned in all this madness. It’s the simple pleasures which really get under your skin. And Giles shopping for me – I don’t think I could even begin to tell him what that means.

It’s funny; I can’t actually imagine Giles doing anything as mundane as shopping. It’s strange to think of him doing normal things, domestic stuff, just like everyone else. I think we all assumed that he emerged fully tweeded and bespectacled, and that he curled up on a shelf with his books when we weren’t there to make him real. How arrogant we were. How shallow and childish, even when we thought we were so grown up. It’s just another thing to feel guilty for, but I know there’s no point in such regret. It won’t change anything now, and I’m just thankful that I can finally see the man behind the adult.

I perch on the edge of the single, hard chair by the bed. The Council seem to specialise in hard chairs for their ‘guests’. I wonder if they get a bulk discount or something. I can just picture Travers ordering some junior Watcher to come up with the cheapest deal – give him more money to spend on the finer things in life, like inflating his own ego. I’m going to stay on the chair. It’s not comfortable, but at least it’ll keep me awake. I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to dream. I glance at the bed like it might betray me. Like it might conjure up the voices, if I seek any comfort.

I sit on the chair and stare at the floor and lose myself in the cracks between the cold, stone flags. I just wish I could make that happen in reality, but I’ve been trained too well. Even now, I know I won’t say the ‘W’ word out loud.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been staring at the spider web of cracks, my mind lost in memory, but I’m only aware that I’ve got company again when I hear Giles’ voice. I look up quickly and he’s standing in the doorway, a look of concern on his face. He’s dressed more casually than I’ve seen in a long time, and he’s got a tired, pinched look around his eyes, like he hasn’t slept. I don’t think I’ve seen him look so worn since Miss Calendar died and I never want him to feel like that again. He moves towards me and I stand, hesitant to make contact, but so pathetically desperate for the company.

“Xander, are you alright? Has something happened?” Guess Giles isn’t the only one who looks like shit.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just tired. Couldn’t really sleep.” He nods sympathetically and I plough on before he can question me again. “I should say thanks for the food and especially for the clothes. I feel less like an extra from Oz now.” Giles looks confused, but I just shake my head. It’s probably not the time for inappropriate pop culture references, and anyway, I’ve got some questions of my own.

I sit back down on the chair and motion Giles to the bunk. He hesitates for a moment, tiredness replaced by puzzlement, then he nods and sits precariously on the edge. For a moment it’s like our positions are reversed – that he is the prisoner and I’m the guard. But I know it’s an illusion. Giles would never get himself in such a situation in the first place. It’s probably something in his genes.

I pull my mind back and look at him. “I got your note. It was nice of you, to not want me to worry. Which kind of begs the question, about why I would be worried? About why you were delayed? So, I admit, I was worried.”

He grins a little ruefully, and I find that it’s infectious. “Ah, well, that was not the intention, so apologies for that. I wrote the note in haste and perhaps didn’t compose it quite as I intended.”

“What happened, Giles? What’s wrong – well apart from the obvious?” He hesitates for a moment, like he’s fighting with his conscience. “Please Giles, tell me.”

“Very well. I received a phone call last night. It was from Dawn. She wanted to tell me that Buffy had been hurt.”

“What!”

“It’s alright. She’s okay. But it was bad enough to require hospital treatment despite her Slayer healing. Angel has come down from LA, to take on patrol for a few days, to give her sufficient time to recover.”

I feel a bad taste in my mouth. Angel. On the Hellmouth. Near Buffy. But I don’t say anything. If Buffy needs help and Angel can provide it, then I’ve got no grounds to complain. And from the look on Giles’ face, I think he’s having pretty much the same thoughts.

“It’s not the injury itself which concerns me, to be honest. Dawn tells me that Buffy is being reckless. As if she’s courting danger. As if she’s actively seeking it out.”

“So what are you trying to say? That instead of suicide by cop, it’s some kind of suicide by vampire. Come on Giles.” I can hardly keep the indignation out of my voice. “This is Buffy we’re talking about.”

“I’m only going by what I’ve been told, Xander. But Dawn is worried and I think we forget that she’s not a little girl anymore, even if she likes to act like one, now and again. She knows her sister and I could tell by the tone of her voice that she’s scared.”

“Okay, that’s easy. You get on the next plane for the US and find out what’s going on. It’s a no brainer, Giles. Don’t worry about me. I’m not going anywhere. Not at least ‘til the Council has another one of their incestuous little conclaves and decides exactly what they want me to do on this mission of theirs. You’ve got to go, Giles. It’s important. It’s Buffy.”

“I know it’s important. Buffy’s important. And Dawn’s important.” He pauses for a second and just for a moment puts his hand on my knee before pulling away. “But you’re important too, Xander. And I’m not going to leave you.” I start to interrupt, but he cuts me off. “Buffy has Angel to watch over her. I’ve talked to him on the telephone and although I believe he has things of his own to take care of in LA, he has promised he won’t leave her until she’s well again.”

“Giles, you don’t need to stay. I’ll be fine.”

“Xander, you won’t be fine. You aren’t fine. One look at you tells me that. And I’m not leaving you here.” He pushes himself up from the bunk and starts to pace the length of the small room. It’s funny how I didn’t really realise just how small it was, until I watch Giles walking restless from the bunk to the door and back again. I feel like Alice and I’m not sure if I’ve grown very big, or everything else has just got very small. Giles stops suddenly and looks at me and he’s so focused, like he’s come to a decision.

“I said before that there was something wrong with what’s going on. That there were a few inconsistencies which I couldn’t reconcile.”

“Like me knowing about Willow taking your magic and how close to dying you were?”

“Precisely. Last night, before Dawn phoned, I did a lot of research on the Librum Veritas. Some of it was quite fascinating, I have to say. “

That’s the Giles we know and love to annoy – finding the research interesting in the face of impending chaos. “So, what then? You discovered the book was a phoney?”

“Ah, I’m afraid not. The veracity of the book and its reputation as a keeper of memory is well documented and above reproach.”

“Right… how could a musty, old, magical book be below reproach? So, Sierra Leone, wherever the hell that is, here I come.” I almost expect to hear Jesse laughing in my ear and my stomach clenches in anticipation. But there’s nothing. Just silence and the sound of Giles clearing his throat.

“Having said all that, I did want to get a look at the book itself. Research will only take you so far and going to the source material, if available, is always the best course of action. I eventually got access to it, but it was no mean feat, I have to say, considering Travers has it locked up in his own private collection.”

I look up at him and grin. “Giles, don’t tell me you did a little breaking and entering. Won’t they take away one of your Scout badges for that?”

He grins back for a moment before continuing. “Sometimes it helps to have friends below stairs, you know – a concept Travers would never understand. Mr Michaels has worked for the Council all his life. He has keys to every room and cupboard in this property. Dinner at high table is always a protracted affair – at least 3 hours by the time the port is passed. Ample time to read through what the book transcribed from your memory.”

“And that helped, how? It can’t have told you anything you didn’t already know. That Travers didn’t know. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

“Exactly. I read the transcript several times and then something struck me. It was a complete account of what happened when Willow’s magic took control. Of everything that happened. Do you see what I’m saying?”

I feel like there’s something I’m missing. Something that should be so obvious, but I just shake my head and wait for Giles to continue. “It wasn’t just the memories from your perspective. It was everything that happened that day, including details that you couldn’t have known. I didn’t catch it before. I was too caught up in the shock of the news of Willow’s death, but reading the whole thing again….It just hit me in the face.”

“What exactly are you trying to say, Giles?” I feel like I’m back in high school and I need words of one syllable.

“I think your memory has been manipulated. It would take some powerful magic to do it, but it’s not beyond the Council’s capabilities.”

“But you said the book can’t lie.”

“Correct. But it can only reflect the memories it finds. If those memories had been tampered with, or added to, it wouldn’t necessarily know the difference. For all its complexities, magic is incredibly straightforward in some ways. I think exposure to the book may have somehow triggered the altered memories. That’s why you had a gap after the wedding, in the days before you went in front of the Council.”

I rise slowly off the chair, and echo Giles’ pacing from earlier. The room still feels small and I feel like I’m in a boxing ring, circling an invisible enemy, getting slowly closer and trying to work out its strategy. Trying to work out the implications of Giles’ theory. “But why would anyone want to alter my memories? I don’t understand.” He’s about to speak again when the realisation hits me in the gut and I almost go down under the force of the blow. “But if I remember killing Willow... Giles, if I remember. And the memories are false…? Giles? Maybe I didn’t do it. What if I didn’t do it? Do you think she could be alive? Please, Giles, say something?”

He takes me by the arm and leads me back to the bunk and pushes me gently down before I can protest. He’s got such a strange look on his face – a mixture of joy and compassion and wonder, like he’s only just realised the implications himself. “I think you could be right. I hope to God, that you’re right.” He sinks down on the bunk beside me, takes my hand and squeezes tightly, and I don’t think I ever want him to let go.

“But why go all this trouble? This whole obscene charade, it’s insane.”

He sighs and lets go of my hand, rubbing his knuckles tiredly across his face. “I don’t know, to be honest. I hadn’t even thought through the implications of the planted memories, ‘til you spoke. I was just pleased to work out what had been bothering me – that the memories were too complete, too objective. I got sidetracked by Dawn’s phone call and Buffy’s injury. I’m sorry, please forgive me. I let you and Willow down by only taking the results of my research half way. That was unforgivable.”

“Giles, stop it. Stop beating yourself up. We need to concentrate now. We need to work out what’s going on.” I’m surprised at my own determination, but it seems to be contagious and I see Giles start to straighten up.

“Of course, you’re right. Okay, let’s try to work this through. The Council is about power, yes? Magical, physical, political, it’s all grist to their particular mill. And I have to say that the current regime is a particularly assiduous disciple of the pursuit of that power.” I nod at him, encouraging him to continue, but he pauses for a moment, obviously trying to work the thoughts through in his head. I want to push him to continue, but I know I’m being impatient and I force myself to wait. After what seems like forever, but was probably only a few seconds, he starts again. “Buffy is one of the most successful Slayers there has ever been, and she’s probably the least biddable to Council commands. She proved that last year when she wouldn’t bow to Travers demands. She’s got power and control. But Willow was a powerful witch, but only semi-trained. She was a wild card. Power without control, if you will. What if the Council wanted that control?”

I’m nodding at him. It sounds plausible. “But where do I come in? Why am I here, Giles? God knows I don’t have any power. If I did, I wouldn’t have so many damn bruises.”

He’s staring at me with such a look of resignation and pity on his face, and I don’t think I want to know the answer. “I think you’re a scapegoat. Collateral damage, I suppose you could say. Get you out of the way, and who’s going to look for Willow.” I want to protest, but he carries on. “Your power is your loyalty, Xander. The Council could never control that. But they could use it to manipulate you. You’ve already said that you didn’t want Buffy and Dawn to know what happened on the Bluff, when you faced Willow. You didn’t want them to know the choice you had to make. You believed you made that choice and that loyalty was suddenly in tatters. All that was left was the guilt. And the one thing the Council knows, is how to manipulate guilt.”

I can’t believe I’m hearing this. That all this was one elaborate game. “All this, just to get me out of the way. That’s just crazy. Why not just shoot me?”

“Travers does his dirty work at arms length. After all, Gentlemen don’t kill.” He pronounces the world ‘Gentlemen’ like he’s just bitten into something really nasty. “Why kill you and raise a pile of questions? You’re dead to the world, and after you remembered killing Willow, you were dead inside. All they had to do was send you away and your guilt would do the rest.”

“But it doesn’t make sense. None of it does. Even with me gone, you would still be here.”

“But I thought she was dead, that the magic consumed her. That it killed you both. And I had a distraught Slayer on my hands. There was no reason to search. Then I heard the rumour about the Council knowing something about Willow’s death. In retrospect, it was so convenient. They wanted me here to see your trial. So that I’d never look further. So that I’d believe your memories and I’d never start to dig.”

I don’t remember standing again, but I’m looking down at Giles and for a moment I want to scream at him for being part of this whole hideous organisation. But I take a breath and remember him asking for forgiveness, and the moment passes and the implications of everything start to spin in my head. False memories, corrupt Council, the possibility of a living, breathing Willow, out there, somewhere… I feel like I want to cry with joy and I start to speak when the second punch lands and my legs go from under me. This time Giles doesn’t catch me before I hit the floor. He’s on his knees beside me, holding me as I start to shake.

“Xander, I know this is a shock. It’s a shock to me as well. And remember that I’m speculating with all this. I think I’m right, but I can’t prove any of it. I don’t want to give you false hope.”

I’m shaking my head and he obviously thinks I’m disagreeing with him, but I have to let him know what I’ve done. “You _are_ right, Giles. She’s alive. I know she’s alive.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I heard her. Last night. She spoke to me. She talked to me, Giles. She talked to me and told me that I saved her.” Giles is staring at me, the shock and doubt obvious in his eyes. “God forgive me, Giles. I didn’t believe her. I didn’t believe it was her. I thought it was a voice in my head, tormenting me. She’s alive, Giles. She talked to me and I shut her out. I might as well have killed her for real.” I feel like I’m going to throw up again, but Giles is rubbing gentle circles on my back and after a moment the nausea passes. Then he hauls me off the floor and for the second time, settles me back on the bunk. He moves the chair directly in front of me and sits down, suddenly looking every inch the Watcher.

“Xander, listen to me. If you heard her, if you truly believe you heard her? “ I nod slowly, still aching at the thought that I forced her away. “It means she’s close, Xander. There are some immensely strong wards around the perimeter of this estate. She wouldn’t have been able to penetrate them from the outside. That means she has to be somewhere close.” He laughs suddenly and the sound echoes in the small bare room. I look at Giles questioningly, but he just shakes his head. “I was just thinking: how like the Council. To engineer such an elaborate show of smoke and mirrors and then have their hubris undermine them.” He takes my hand again and it’s a lifeline in all this madness. “We’ll find her, Xander. Now we know what we’re fighting, we’ll find her. I promise you, we will find her.”

I look down at our clasped hands and for the first time in what seems like years, I feel the beginnings of hope.


	12. Memento Mori: Part 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xander finally gets out of his cell, but I’m not sure he’s going to like what he finds.

_  
**Memento Mori: Part 11**   
_   


Giles has gone again. But he promised he’d be quick this time, an hour at most. He wants to have another word with his friend, the jailer. He wants to see if there are any breaks in normal behaviour from Travers and the rest of the mouldy old fuckers. Anything that might give us a clue to what they’re playing at. And it is a ‘they’. This whole sick farce is too elaborate for Travers to orchestrate on his own. He may be a master puppeteer, but this needs more than two hands to pull it off. Though now that I think about it, I bet he’s an expert with one hand, and sometimes I really don’t think I should be allowed to have a brain, because just eew….

I try to distract myself by walking around my cell, but it’s the same four paces to the door as it was the last hundred times I did it and I bet when I turn back, it’ll be the same four paces to get back to my bunk. I close my eyes and try to relax; this time willing the voice to come back. But there’s nothing. Not even Jesse. Just the sound of my own heartbeat and my own harsh breathing, and the echo of breaking china in my head. I know I can’t say this to Giles, but I’d do anything they wanted, if it meant that Willow was out of their hands. I’d go on their damn suicide mission, if it meant she was safe. It’s a bargain I could live with, but I know Giles would never let me make the offer.

I think Giles’ theory that they want Willow for something has to be true. The Council wouldn’t be able to stomach all that power existing and not being able to direct it. I’m still just freaking out at the ludicrous ends they seem to have gone to, to get their grubby paws on it. The thought of Willow under their control just makes my skin crawl and for a moment the memory that I shut her out makes me want to heave. Giles says that I had no way of knowing that she was real. That I shouldn’t blame myself. Like he’s not blaming himself for Buffy getting hurt. Like he’s not blaming himself for needing to rely on Angel. Like he’s not blaming himself for believing that Willow and I were dead. It’s just one big guiltapalooza around here.

I consider pacing again. But this time, going from side to side. It’s fives paces instead of four and who knows, everything might look different if I come at things from a different angle. I realise that I’m channelling my inner Willow from high school – trying to be optimistic, trying to think ‘outside the box’. But who am I trying to kid? Four paces or five, I’m still in a small stone box and the only way out is bolted and locked.

I wonder where Giles is, and suddenly, as if in answer to my thought, the door opens and Giles is back. The tired look is a distant memory and a new person seems to have taken his place. He stands in the entrance, tall and straight and determined and simply gestures for me to come through the door. For a moment I wonder at the silence and my brain does its usual jump to the left. Does the test for vampires crossing thresholds work the same for leaving as well as entering premises? Giles beckons again and I drag my mind back onto a more sensible plane. I can feel the questions crowding in my head, but Giles simply shakes his head and turns on his heel. He looks back once to check that I’m following and I’m so close that I nearly run into the back of him.

We travel down a series of bland corridors, past heavy oak panelled doors and dark passages, ‘til I start to feel lost and a little dizzy. I feel like Theseus in the Labyrinth, only in this little epic, Giles is my lifeline in so many different ways. The route isn’t familiar from the last time I was led from my cell, but then I wasn’t exactly paying attention to the landmarks. Giles halts abruptly, pausing at an intersection and I hover behind while he waits. There’s nothing but silence, but it seems to satisfy him and he crosses quickly to a small, narrow door set deep into the opposite wall. He opens it cautiously and the opening reveals a set of steep stairs disappearing up into the darkness. Giles looks back at me for a moment, like he’s measuring my courage and it seems he’s satisfied with what he finds, because he turns back and begins to ascend. A soft instruction to ensure the door is closed behind me is the only sound in the dark and I obey the order and take a deep breath before following him up into the unknown. We move carefully up two flights and the stairs seem to get narrower and the walls closer together, the further up we go. I know that it’s just an illusion, but the sense of claustrophobia is almost overwhelming and I have an insane urge to run back down the stairs and seek the comfort and familiarity of my cell. Before I can do anything stupid, we come to an abrupt halt in front of another matching door. There’s a faint light seeping through the cracks around the door frame and it’s enough to see Giles groping in his pocket for something. To my shock he pulls out a lock pick, or at least I assume it’s a lock pick, since I’ve only ever seen them in movies and comic books. He inserts the tool carefully into the lock and starts to work at the mechanism. The silence hangs heavy in the small enclosed space and all I can hear is the scraping of metal on metal and the sound of Giles’ shallow breathing. Suddenly there’s a click and I feel like I want to check behind me in case anyone has heard. The handle turns easily and I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. Giles pushes the door open cautiously and a light, shockingly bright, spills into the dark, narrow stairway. Giles moves forward carefully and then beckons me to follow him again.

The room is a text book cliché of an English study – oak panels, heavy drapes and endless book cases, lined with leather bound volumes, locked away behind delicate metal grills. It’s as if someone wanted to keep the knowledge in the books controlled and contained. The whole room just reeks of the Council. Looking across the room to an imposing arched doorway, I realise that the door we came through isn’t the main entrance. I look back and when it’s closed, it’s almost unnoticeable in the corner. How like the fuckers to have a servants entrance to all this grandeur. I look around and an enormous roll top desk dominates one end of the room. It’s scattered with papers and the familiar paraphernalia of research. A delicate Tiffany lamp looks out of place amongst all this solid masculinity and for a moment my mind turns back to Anya and the wedding. She had a similar lamp down on her wedding list and had to show me a picture of one to explain what she meant. It wasn’t that she particularly liked the style; she was just desperate to own something with Tiffany in the title. I remember suggesting that we just rent the DVD of the Audrey Hepburn movie, but that didn’t go down very well. My heart aches at the thought of another person that I hurt and for a moment the room goes out of focus, before I pull my thoughts back and force myself to continue to catalogue the room. A vast, old fashioned, cast iron radiator takes up most of the facing wall and as I brush against it I yelp and jump back. The metal is almost scalding and despite the heat pouring off the ancient contraption, I can’t help but shiver; even the furniture in this place is dangerous. I back away and turn back towards the desk. There’s an impressive wing backed, leather chair and it’s clear that whoever sits there has an elevated idea of their own status. I can pretty well guess who the occupant must be and I’m just about to ask Giles, when he cuts in before me.

“So, welcome to Travers’ private study. His base of operations, if you will. Like the man himself, it’s large, designed to intimidate and is full of hot air.” For the first time in what feels like weeks, I laugh out loud and Giles chuckles quietly to himself. Ever since we realised there is a possibility that Willow is alive, we’ve just been cranking up the tension, higher and higher, and standing in the middle of Travers' temple to his own ego, Giles’ small joke makes the air suddenly feel clean again. I stand for a moment, just savouring the sensation of almost normality, and then it’s suddenly there – a clear head and a brain that might even consider working for once. I decide to take advantage of the situation before the clarity disappears.

“Hmm, Giles, I don’t mean to sound stupid, but when exactly did you learn to pick locks?” Before he can answer, I think of another, more pertinent question. “And while we’re on the subject, why did you have to pick the lock? Couldn’t your friend just have given you a key?”

“Not a stupid question, Xander. I didn’t want to put Mr Michaels in an awkward position by having him give me his keys. If we’re discovered, then I allowed you out of your cell and the culpability stops with me. I wasn’t going to risk his status in the household, when I knew I didn’t have to. His friendship means a lot to me. And to answer your first question: it’s amazing what an English public school education will do for you. Perhaps one of these days I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“Cool!” The idea of breaking and entering lessons from Giles is just another bit of surrealness, to file away with the rest of the bizarre things in my life. “And what was up with the mime routine back there?”

“Travers has reactivated the spell, to watch you. I could feel it as I approached your door. I’ve put a counter spell in place, as before, which will hold for a while, but a little discretion seemed appropriate under the circumstances.”

“Okay, that makes sense. So, why exactly are we in Travers office?”

“I’m hoping that we may find some clue as to what the Council are up to.”

“Well, I’m putting bets on Travers needing Willow for something a little stronger than getting his daily horoscope done.” Despite the heartache of the last few days, I can’t help but be buoyed up by the possibility of light at the end of this very long tunnel and despite the seriousness of the situation, Giles matches my grin.

“I don’t know how much time we have before someone gets suspicious. There’s a strange lack of activity around the place and I haven’t seen Travers for several hours. I fear that they may already have begun whatever they are planning, so there’s no time to lose. Xander, if you can start to look through the papers on the top of the desk? Shout if you come across anything of interest.”

Finally, something to do. I cross to the desk and start to sift through the pile of papers scattered on the top. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, so read each page carefully, terrified I’ll miss something important. After ten minutes I’ve gone through an essay on demonic biology, some Latin translations, and I know I’ve been Giles’ company far too long when I recognise Latin translations so easily. There’s even Travers’ shopping list. The sight of something so mundane somehow cuts the monster down to size in my head and I want to tell Giles, but he’s deep in a series of notebooks that he’s ‘liberated’ from one of the locked book shelves. I turn back to my paperwork, getting more and more frustrated as the minutes rush past and still there’s nothing. I feel the pressure building in my head - we’re getting nowhere and we can’t find anything. I can’t find Willow and I feel so damn useless, I want to break something - anything to ease the tension. I’m just sizing up the Tiffany lamp when Giles breaks through my haze.

“Xander, I think I’ve found it.” Giles is staring at a page of closely written notes and to my horror, I notice his hand is shaking”

“Giles, what is it? What have you found?”

“A spell. He’s going to do a spell. Dear God.” He sits down heavily on the edge of the desk and I have to stop myself from shaking him.

“Giles, what spell? Tell me.” He’s just sitting there looking dazed and I pluck the paper out of his hand, hoping to get an explanation. But of course it’s in some ridiculous language that only 3 people in the world can read, one of those being Giles. “Giles, talk to me. What’s this about? Please? I can’t help if I don’t know what’s happening.” I think my pleading is finally getting through and he looks up at me, but it’s like his eyes are somewhere far away and I don’t think I’ve been this scared in years.

“They want to turn back the clock. They’re going to try to invoke the original Slayer spell. And they’re going to try to change the nature of it. To bind the Slayers even closer to them. They’re trying to ensure they’ve got complete control.”

“But that’s crazy.”

I can feel a rant building, but Giles cuts me off. “Just think about it. They wouldn’t ever have to deal with another Buffy, because the Slayer wouldn’t be permitted to have friends. They wouldn’t have to deal with another Faith, because rebellion would be eradicated.” His voice drifts off for a moment, like he’s talking to himself. “They wouldn’t even have to deal with another Niki, because a Slayer wouldn’t be permitted to give birth.” I want to ask who Niki is, but suddenly, he’s got that look again – so focused, so angry, so not the Giles we normally see. “Complete power and complete control. That’s what it’s all about. And Travers wants both.”

In my gut I know Giles is right, but I can’t stop my protest. “But they can’t interfere with a Slayer’s free will, surely? They might as well hire someone to build them a load of Slayerbots. Travers is insane. They can’t meddle with something so fundamental? Giles? Think of the power they’d need.”

Giles just looks at me grimly. “I am thinking about it.. Xander, that’s why they want her. That’s why they want her power. They’re going to channel Willow’s magic to power the spell.”

I shake my head, trying to deny the implication. “But Willow would never agree to that. Not to something so dangerous. Something so wrong.”

“I don’t think they’re going to give her a choice. They don’t need Willow. They just need her magic. You know how much power she has. She nearly ended the world. Travers wants to use that power. He’ll use her like a battery until the power runs out. He won’t care, just as long as it gets him what he wants.”

Bastard! Power crazed, inbred, mouldy old bastard! I grab Giles’ arm, almost shaking him in my rage and my anxiety, for Willow. “Giles, we’ve got to stop this. I’ve just almost found her again. I won’t lose her now. Not when we’re so close.”

Giles pats me on the arm, trying to calm me down and I force myself to take a deep breath and let go of his jacket. “There’s only one place I can think of that's private enough to do a ritual this intense. There’s a small chapel on the outskirts of the estate. It’s secluded and quiet and just the kind of place Travers would use for something like this.

“Okay, let’s get going. They may have already started. We don’t have any time to stand about.”

Giles just nods tersely, but I’m already at the door when I realise that he’s not following. “Giles, come on.” But he’s fishing in the inside pocket of his jacket and for a moment I think of rabbits and hats and hipflasks. But there’s nothing magical about the object in his hand. It’s a gun and for some reason the sight shocks me to the core. But then I nod. It feels right. This whole farce started with a gun shot and I feel like we’re coming full circle.

“I hope you know how to use that thing?”

Giles just smiles and gestures me to get moving. “Lock picking isn’t the only thing I learned at school, Xander. I think you’d be surprised at some of my talents.”

Now there’s a feed line just begging for a witty reply, but the current situation is too desperate for any more jokes and I bite my tongue, for now. Time for jokes later. When this is over. When Willow is safe. When Travers is dead.

Then I’ll laugh ‘til I cry.


	13. Memento Mori: Part 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Giles and Xander move towards the end game

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**Memento Mori: Part 12**   
_   


We ghost through the quiet house, alert for any Council members, but it’s just as Giles said, there’s no one about and we take the advantage while we can. It feels like we’ve crept down miles of corridors, but finally we descend another narrow stair to reach an intersection and there’s a sudden murmur of voices, echoing in the stone passage. We pause briefly before a half open door and finally have an explanation for the empty upper floors. The room is full of people, mainly old men, bent over a large table strewn with papers. They’re talking in low voices and I have to strain to hear what they’re saying. We’re just about to move away when there’s a ripple of laughter and I hear a louder voice make a sneering comment about Slayers and obedience and control. My nails dig into my palm as I realise that they’re talking about the spell. I can feel a wave of rage rising inside me and for once I really want to make a Wish. To send them all to a very special hell and make them suffer. But I don’t have that kind of power and I don’t think a vengeance demon would answer my call. Not now. I notice my hand is bleeding and the sight pulls me back. Maybe if this were a fairytale and I was a hero on a quest, then I’d get my magic lamp and my three wishes, but Giles is tugging at my arm and I force my mind back to reality. This is no fairytale and I’m no hero, but I’m damned if I’m going to let the fuckers win, without putting up a fight. I take a deep breath and then we’re moving again, sliding cautiously past the danger and on down an adjoining corridor, ‘til finally we reach a sturdy outside door. Giles pauses for a moment, listening again, and then eases it open and steps forward and I follow.

I’m shocked, as I realise that I’m in the open air and it’s the sweetest sensation I’ve had in the longest time. I stand for a moment, just enjoying the feeling of the breeze on my face and I hear the sound of an owl, calling in the twilight.

“We’re going to have to walk, Xander. It’s not far, perhaps 10 or 15 minutes at most. We can’t afford for someone to notice a car is missing. Also, I think stealth is our best advantage.”

“Sure, Giles. Makes sense, I guess.” I’m suddenly sombre again, and I don’t know if it’s Giles’ words or the feeling of the evening air which makes me chill. The owl hoots again.

Giles points out the way and we move cautiously, but with as much speed as we can manage, away from the house, keeping to the shadows and the shelter of the overhanging trees. It feels so good to be out and to be moving – to be doing something at last, but every step cranks up the tension at what we might find at our destination.

We’ve only been moving for a minute when I call for Giles to stop. My feet are cold and starting to get damp. Shoes were the last thing on my mind when we left the house and it’s too late to get any now. Giles walks back to me, his expression a combination of concern and exasperation, but I just shake my head and peel off my socks. Better bare feet on the grass, than damp socks. Willow will give me hell if I catch pneumonia, but I’ll stand there and take it, just to have the comfort of seeing her again. I shove the socks in my pocket and give Giles a quick thumbs up, and we start moving again. It’s difficult to gauge the time passing in the gathering dark, but the clock is ticking and I think it must be about ten minutes since we left the house. I can just see the outline of Giles’ back as he strides ahead of me and I’m struggling to keep up, despite being about 20 years younger. I promise myself that if we get out of this, then I’m definitely going to get fit again. I take a deep breath and start to catch up, but my mind is clogged with damp wool and press-ups, and I almost run into the back of Giles, standing motionless behind a huge tree. He’s looking down on a small stone building nestled in the hollow between two grassy banks. A faint light glitters from a window and I can see the outline of an ornate archway which I assume is the main entrance. I want to ask Giles what he’s doing, if this is the chapel he was talking about, but he motions me to silence and continues to watch. After a moment, I see a black-clad figure walk across the intersecting path at the bottom of the slope. In the dusk I can’t see his face, but from the way Giles stiffens, it’s obvious that he recognises the man. The figure passes and Giles turns back to me, talking so quietly that I strain to hear him. “That’s one of Travers cronies. Nasty piece of work. He’s obviously on lookout duty.”

“So how do we get past him? Do you think there are any more?”

Giles shakes his head briefly. “No, I think he’s the only one. Travers may have the backing of the inner council for his plan, but most will want to distance themselves from the actual dirty work and will be conspicuously elsewhere, as we saw. If we’re lucky, there shouldn’t be too many in the chapel.”

“And if we’re not lucky?”

“Then we’ll deal with it, when it happens. And to answer your first question, you stay here and I’ll signal when it’s safe to move.”

I want to protest, but he’s got his best, cranky librarian face on, so I just nod. He moves off into the darkness and I stand under the tree arguing with myself. Obedience and common sense hold out for a good 30 seconds before I weaken and start to follow him, as quietly as I can. I get to the bottom of the hill without incident, but just as I see the light from the chapel more clearly, the lookout comes back round the side of the building and I dive behind the nearest bush for cover. I look up cautiously as he rounds the corner and a shadow detaches itself from a deep recess in the facing wall. I want to shout, but then everything happens so quickly – there’s just the impression of a raised arm and the glint of something shining in the moonlight. Then the sound of metal on bone and a body sinking to the soft, damp ground.

The shadow man looks straight at my hiding place and a low voice carries in the quiet evening air. “It’s all right Xander, you can come out now.”

For a brief moment, I remain frozen, shocked by what I’ve witnessed. But it’s just another reminder that there’s far more to Giles than books and tweed and tea, and I pull myself together and hasten towards him.

I don’t speak, but the shock must be obvious on my face, because Giles puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry. He’s not dead, but he'll have a nasty headache and an even nastier temper, when he wakes up, so we need to restrain him for now.” Giles begins to unbuckle his trouser belt and starts to tell me to do the same, when I remind him that I wasn’t allowed a belt, in case I did something stupid. He looks frustrated for a moment and then pulls off his tie and starts to secure our victim’s wrists and ankles, before gagging him with a large white handkerchief. It’s all done with such ruthless efficiency that I wonder for a moment, what the hell else they taught him at that school. Giles interrupts my wandering thoughts with a terse request for help and together we manhandle our victim into the shadows of the nearby bushes.

Job done and we’re moving again. Once more I’m following Giles as he sidles along the edge of the building and pauses briefly to peer in at a small window. He looks back at me grimly.

“Travers is in there, with at least one other. I can’t see Willow, or any one else, but that doesn’t mean anything. We’ll go in by the back door and come at them from the rear. Stay behind me and out of the line of fire.”

I want to ask if that’s an actual or metaphorical line of fire, but I can see that Giles hasn’t put the gun away, so I guess I know the answer to that one.

We slide silently round the end of the chapel, retracing the steps of the unfortunate lookout, ‘til we reach a small weather beaten door. I expect Giles to get his lock pick out, but he turns the handle slowly and, to my surprise, the door opens easily under his hands. Obviously Travers didn’t seriously expect company. Arrogant bastard - just assuming he’s so damn unassailable.

I follow Giles down a short passageway to another, larger, more impressive door. The air smells musty, like the building hasn’t been used in a long time. For all their vows to fight evil, I get the feeling that the Council aren’t exactly big on the church going front. Now that we’re actually here, I feel like I want to tell Giles to hurry up, that we need to move quickly, that we need to get to Travers before he can get going. But I know that I need to stop panicking. There are so many good reasons why we’ve been careful up ‘til now. I know I won’t help Willow if I do anything stupid, and for once I just want to do something right. I force myself to calm down and follow Giles' lead.

The second door opens as easily as the first, and I heave a sigh of relief that there’s no theatrical creak of the hinges. We slide through the partially open door and as I take stock of the surroundings, I realise that we’re behind an elegant, ornate pulpit. The inside of the chapel glows in the soft candlelight and I can hear a voice, chanting.

I grab Giles arm in panic. They’ve started and we need to do something, before it’s too late. Before they hurt her. I know Giles can see the fear in my eyes, but he just puts a finger to his lips and grips the gun tightly. He starts to ease round the side of the pulpit and I’m hard on his heels.

Suddenly, shockingly, I can see Travers standing off to one side, watching raptly as another, slighter man intones words from a yellowing parchment. I continue scanning the chapel, checking for other Watchers, but then I see her and I have to force back a shout - my Willow, lying on the cold, stone floor. So still. So silent. Her red hair spilling like dried blood across the dirty flags. She looks so pale. I don’t remember her looking so pale. There are candles set at her head and her feet and the air in the room is thick and heavy on my tongue and I realise that it’s the magic working. I grab Giles’ arm and he nods, and we move forward together.

Travers eyes are fixed on Willow and I don’t think he even hears us, as we approach. At least, not ‘til Giles puts the gun against the back of his neck.

“Tell him to stop the spell, Travers. Tell him to stop it now, before I do something I won’t regret.”

Travers stiffens, as he feels the cold metal hard against his skin, but he’s an arrogant fucker and he turns round slowly and looks at Giles, and there’s nothing but contempt and complacency in his face. “Mr Giles, late as usual. And Mr Harris, I don’t believe we gave you permission to leave your room.” It’s just so surreal. I feel like I’m in a bad Bond movie and any moment he’s going to start stroking a cat.

“Travers, tell him to stop the spell, or I’ll do it myself.”

The spell guy is looking nervous, but he keeps on chanting and I ease away from Giles and start to move down the aisle towards Willow, when Giles shouts at me. “Xander, stay back. Stay back from the stream of magic. It’s not safe.”

I don’t understand what he means for a moment, I can’t see anything, but then, just like before, I almost feel like I could touch the magic in air. Like it’s pulsing around me. It’s as if there’s a link between the parchment, running down to Willow, and I look wildly from Giles to the parchment guy, and back again, not knowing what to do.

“Stop the damn spell, Quentin. Do it!”

“It’s too late Rupert. It’s gone too far. Now we’ll have the order that the Council was designed for. No more anarchy, no more disobedience, no more delinquency. Just compliance and the focus to carry out the mission.”

There’s something like pride in his voice and I want to be sick. He really is insane. He really believes he’s doing the right thing. I can see that Giles is looking as ill as me and then suddenly I hear the gun cock and I can’t believe he’s going to do it. Travers eyes are glittering in the candlelight and he looks like he doesn’t care that he’s going to die. I want to shout out, but I can’t form the words as Giles swings towards the spell caster and shoots him in the kneecap, and he screams and collapses to the floor. The parchment flutters out of his hands and I dive forward and grab it, just as another higher scream, echoes around this once sacred place. I turn towards the source of the pain and it’s Willow - arched, taut as a bow, only her head and feet anchoring her to the floor. Her hair is black and there’s a shadow shimmering around her and suddenly I can hear something like tribal chanting, low and sonorous, vibrating through the thick stone walls.

I look back at Giles, panicked, the parchment still in my hand and Travers is laughing and I want to scream.

“I told you it was too late. You can’t stop the spell now. You’ve failed Rupert. You couldn’t keep your Slayer under control, you couldn’t even keep a group of children under control. You should have brought the witch to us for training. It was your duty and you failed.”

Willow. For a moment Travers words had distracted me, but I shake myself and start to move towards her, ignoring Giles shout of warning. I tell him to concentrate on Travers. That this is something I have to do. Something I need to do.

I manage to get to the edge of the first pew when the pressure in the air pushes me to my knees and I can hardly breathe. I’ve still got the parchment in my hand, but I’m scared to let it go in case Travers tries to get to it. I force myself forward and it’s like crawling through deep water. I keep my eyes focused on my Willow and she’s so close now, but I still can’t touch her. I dimly hear Giles arguing with Travers; still trying to find a way to end the spell, but I tune them out and continue my battle against the magic.

I crawl forward, inching my way towards her, fighting through the pressure in the air. Finally I reach her and the parchment falls from my hand as I run my fingers, lovingly, through her hair. The tears are streaming down my face and there are matching drops on her own pale cheeks. Oh God, she’s still in there. She knows what’s happening and I feel like I want to be sick. I was half expecting her to be unconscious, but she’s in there, living this horror, feeling the magic course through flesh and bone. I cup my hands on either side of her face, stoking down the side of her jaw like I could push myself under her skin and make her whole. I feel like I want to scream, but this is so private, so personal and I can’t bear the thought of Travers hearing me beg. I force myself to whisper in her ear. “Please Willow. Don’t leave me. Not when I’ve found you again. I didn’t mean to shut you out. I know I don’t deserve you as a friend. But you need to fight. Do it for the Slayers. Do it for Buffy.”

I can feel her shift slightly under my fingers and for a moment I dare to hope again. “Come on, Wills, fight the magic. It’s not all you are. Please, Wills. Please, still be my friend. Remember when we were friends. We got lost somewhere along the way, but it’s always been there, running through us. Be strong, Wills. Don’t let them win.” Just then, she blinks and her eyes turn towards me. She’s breathing so hard and I know that she’s trying to fight. “I knew you were in there. I knew you wouldn’t leave me. You can do it.” Her lips start to move but I can’t hear any sound and I bend further, desperate to hear her.

“Love you Xander. Knew you’d come. Always be your friend. Remember that.” She smiles slightly and I feel like someone lit a fire somewhere in my gut and for a moment the tears threaten to overwhelm me.

“No, No goodbyes. Don’t you dare say goodbye. I won’t let you go. I shut you out once before. Not going to happen again. Ever. Do you hear me? Never going to give up on you.”

Her eyes are shining with tears and so much pain, but her hair is tinged with red and I grab the moment like a lifeline and start to pull her back. “You can do it. You know you can do it. Together we can beat them. You know we can beat them.”

She’s staring at me, black eyes flickering to green and I try to push my determination into her. Trying to dam up the magic by sheer force of will. She struggles for a moment and I take hold of her hands, trying to give her my strength. I hear Travers in the background, goading Giles, but I’ve no time for that. I need to concentrate. I need to believe. The magic surround her – it’s like I can feel it through her, heavy and oppressive, binding her, draining her to fuel the intentions of the spell. I’m so focused on Willow and then, through my concentration, I hear Travers laughing again and there’s a vague whimpering coming from the other corner and I dimly realises that the wounded spell caster is lying on the ground somewhere behind me. I shut out the noise and concentrate back on Willow.

“Xander?” She whispers my name so quietly, but I can hear her so clearly now. There are no barriers between us, apart from the magic and I promise myself that I will stop it, even if I have to tear down every stone in this chapel, one by one. “Xander, listen to me. It’s too late. It’s far too late. I can’t stop it. It’s out of control. I can’t stop it now.”

I shake my head dumbly, refusing to believe her. It’s just a line the Council fed her. It can’t be true. “There’s got to be a way. You’re so strong, Wills. You’ll find a way. We just need to fight harder.”

She smiles at me and there’s so much tenderness in such a simple gesture. “You’re the strong one, Xander. I need you to be the strong one. I can’t stop the spell now. But you can. You can stop it. There’s only one way.”

I look at her in confusion. “Wills, I don’t understand. I haven’t any magic. I can’t stop it. I don’t know how.”

“Yes you can.” The magic is getting stronger and she’s having to force the words out now, like the spell is trying to stop her from speaking. “You have to cut the magic off at source. It’s the only way, Xander. It’s the only way.”

I stare at her for a moment, not understanding, and then the realisation hits me like a hammer and I start to shake my head wildly from side to side. “No. No I won’t. Please, don’t ask me to do that. I can’t do that, Wills. There has to be another way. We’ll find another way. Giles will know.”

She’s struggling for breath now, the magic flaying her from the inside and I feel so helpless, and I don’t know what to do. She whispers again, so faint, but every word pounds another nail into my soul. “No other way. This is the only way. It’s time to be strong. Be strong for both of us. Be strong for Buffy and Faith and all the others. It’s the only way to keep them safe. It’s the only way to beat the spell.” I’m gripping her hand like I can hold her with me by brute force, trying to deny what she’s telling me, and I feel her squeeze gently back. “Please Xander.” Her voice is almost gone and I don’t know what to do. “Don’t leave me like this. I can’t come back. It’s too late. Help me stop the pain. Please. There’s so much pain.”

Her body jerks suddenly and her hair and eyes are black. The spell surges and I have a sickening realisation that there really is no return this time. I turn back to Giles and I want to plead with him, but he’s just staring at me, pity and compassion and horror, as clear as the tears running down his face. But he holds the gun on Travers and he doesn’t interfere. It’s the final blow and now, finally, I know that it’s real. Now I believe, and I turn back to my best friend and she’s rigid in the grip of the spell. My hands slide up her neck and I stare at them, detached and disconnected. I hear Travers laugh again and then the sound of flesh hitting flesh, and I look back at my fingers – red and meaty against the delicate paleness of her neck.

So this is my turn to be strong? God help me, please. Give me another choice.

One more flare of magic and she’s stretched taut in my hands. I try one more time to reach her, to prove that there’s another way, but she can’t even speak now and her face is twisted in agony. The magic surrounds her and consumes her and I know that I’ve lost her, whatever happens, and that there’s only one road to travel. So this is what it comes down to – my one girl in all the world, against the future of so many girls. I don’t want to make this choice. I don’t want this responsibility. But this is my place – just another pawn in the greater game and things are too far gone to change the rules now.

She’s shaking like she’s going to shatter in my hold and it’s far too late. I can feel the magic in the air rising above me like a living thing, as the drumming gets louder and louder and I hear Willow’s pleading echo in my mind and in my soul. _“Please Xander. It’s time to be strong. It’s the only way to beat them. It’s the only way to stop the pain. I love you. I’ll always love you.”_ This time I know I can’t ignore the voice. This time I know that she’s real and she’s asking me to help her and I can’t turn my back. She’s so fragile under my hands and for a moment I see an image of a pale china cup, shattering into pieces on the hard cold ground. And I grasp and I grip and I squeeze and I twist and I break. I kill my best friend and I want to die.

The roar in the air and in my head subsides and there’s sudden shocking silence, I gather her in my arms, willing the life back into a broken shell, but it’s too late. It’s far too late. Finally the scream that’s been building inside of me erupts and it shatters the silence into a million pieces and I have to make myself to stop before I bring the rest of the Council down on top of us. I force myself to breath and rock my Willow gently in my arms as if I’m lulling her into sleep.

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting, just holding her, but gradually I realise that Giles is calling to me. I look up slowly and he’s still standing near the pulpit, he gun trained on Travers and I realise that only minutes have passed since this madness started. Travers has a split lip and a line of sluggish blood oozing from his nose and his expression has shifted from arrogant to outraged at the failure of his plans. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such malevolence in someone’s eyes.

The bile rises in my throat and I stand up and put Willow down careful on the nearest pew, running my fingertips gently across her cheek, and I walk towards Giles, keeping Travers in my sights. “Give me the gun, Giles.”

He looks at me, understanding in his eyes, and shakes his head. “No. I won’t let you do this to yourself. You had no choice with Willow. But with this, you do. I won’t let you stain yourself, Xander. Not with this filth. Leave him to me.” He looks back at Travers, the contempt clear in his face.

“Please, Giles.” I want to grab the gun and just do it, but he’s just shaking his head and I know that I’ve lost. I turn back to my Willow and bend down to kiss her cheek and I know that Giles is watching.

Suddenly there’s the sound of a scuffle and I look up to see Travers make a bolt for it. I start to move but Giles is way ahead of me and his arm jerks once as Travers makes a dive for the main door. The gunshot sounds hideous in the small space and Travers staggers once and falls to his knees, and looks back at us with hatred in his eyes. Giles walks towards him and shoots again and Travers is sprawled on the cold stone slabs, discarded candles rolling on the floor at his feet.

I walk over to the foot of the pulpit and gaze down at him, expecting my feelings to overwhelm me. But there’s nothing there. I’m standing at the bottom of the Council’s personal stairway to heaven, looking down at the architect of so much monstrous evil and I just feel so empty and sick. I notice one of the fallen candlesticks is still alight and its flames are licking at the corner of the discarded parchment lying on the dirty flagstones and I look at Giles questioningly. But he just shakes his head and we stand there for a moment, watching it burn. Then in the silence I hear a door shutting and I realise that we’ve forgotten about the spell caster and I turn to Giles in alarm.

“It’s alright, Xander. I let him go. He’ll tell the Council that Travers failed and they will close their eyes and ears and carry on. That’s how it is. That’s how it’s always been.”

“And Travers?”

“Travers failed. The Council doesn’t tolerate failure. Not ever. They will arrange things.”

I stand for a moment, looking at this man I’ve never known, and nod, trusting in his judgement and his strength. I walk the few steps back to where Willow is lying, so serene and peaceful and it feels like the longest walk of my life. I pick her up gently, cradling her in my arms and supporting her head, like she’s the most precious thing in my whole world. And she is.

Giles approaches quietly and smoothes the hair away from her face and then he smiles at me, and it’s full of such sorrow and compassion.

“I think it’s time to take her home.”


	14. Memento Mori: Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Sunnydale....

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**Memento Mori: Epilogue**   
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I walk slowly through the cemetery, approaching her grave from the West Gate, just as I’ve done every day for the last two weeks. It’s part of the ritual, part of the pilgrimage, and I can’t imagine a time when I won’t retrace these steps. Unless I’m not here. I pause for a moment, running my hand across Tara’s headstone in a mark of respect. It’s so strange to think that the madness started with her murder – that someone so gentle could be the unwitting trigger for so much hate. I follow the thought and turn towards Willow’s stone, and the sight of it is testament to the fact that the circle of power and deceit was completed with her death. I stroke, lovingly, across the polished marble and sink down to settle cross-legged on the empty patch of ground beside her. It’s the site of my own grave and I belong here. I know Giles thinks I’m morbid, sitting where they’d erected a stone for me, even though they didn’t have a body, but it feels right in a strange way. An acknowledgement of what I did, and of what was done to us. Sitting here, I feel that I’m still with her and I belong.

I know I’m worrying them, coming here everyday. But it helps to talk to her. To tell her how things are going. It helps to sort through the noises in my head. She knows that Buffy is doing better and that Dawn is doing okay in school. She knows that Angel is back in LA and that Giles and I heaved a sigh of relief when he went. She knows that Giles is still here. For now. He hasn’t said when he’s going back and I haven’t asked. We’ve got no right to ask him to baby-sit us. We’re all grown up now and we have to face our own problems once and for all. If I continue to tell myself that everyday, one day I might even believe it. These are the things I tell her, and everyday they seem a little more real. But the Council still exists and I know that there will always be another Travers, with more plots and schemes and plans, and the thought makes me shiver in the early evening sunlight.

I’m sitting here, next to my best friend’s grave, eyes closed, and the final moments in the Council chapel roll out before me. I’ve watched myself killing her, over and over again. Sometime she’s begging me to do it, and sometimes she’s screaming at me stop, to find another way. But it always ends the same – I kill my Willow, and I want to die. I open my eyes and watch as my hand seems to move of its own volition, snaking into my jacket pocket and pulling out the knife. It’s another part of the ritual - pushing the button and watching the blade spring open. The sun glints on the edges and it’s so hypnotic I could lose myself in the gleam of the sharp steel, for days. I start my meditation, my prayer to the dead, testing the edge of the blade against the delicate skin of my wrists and forearms, tracing fading scars left by ragged nails, but never pushing quite hard enough to draw blood. It’s like each day is a test – how long will I sit and talk to Willow? How long will I play with the knife? I’m not sure how much longer I can pass this test. I’m not sure how much longer I want to try.

My trance is interrupted by a sudden flurry of birds, scattering among the trees. I look up and Giles is walking slowly towards me from the East. I close the blade quickly and shove it in my pocket before he can see. This is my private high-wire act, my act of contrition and I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to share it with anyone but the dead.

Giles approaches casually, as if he was out for an after dinner stroll, but there’s a tension in his shoulders and I just know that he’s come to find me, and that he’s worried. He clears his throat and smiles, but it’s an effort and it’s obvious that he knows that. “Xander, would you mind if I joined you?” I look at him quizzically for a moment, then nod, and he lowers himself slowly onto the grass next to me. As I look at him, I wonder what a passer-by would make of the scene. We probably look so incongruous that for a moment I want to laugh. I feel like we should be sitting on a blanket with a red checked tablecloth and a wicker basket beside us, because, god knows, it couldn’t get any more surreal.

Giles sits for a moment, eyes flicking from the writing on the two headstones and the back to me. I think after all we’ve been through that I know him a little better now, and I can tell the instant he makes up his mind to speak. “Xander, you know everyone is worried about you? That they care about you, and they understand the choice you had to make? I need to be sure that you do understand that.”

I know he’s sincere and it makes it even harder to put my feelings into words. But this is Giles and he’s listening to me, so I try. “I know. I realise I’m worrying people. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to. It’s just that….” My eyes dart to his face and back to the ground, as I grope to find a way to explain. And he waits for me and gives me back my courage. “It’s like…..it’s like I’m still back in that cell, pacing from the bunk to the door and back again. The distance from Buffy’s house to the cemetery; the time it takes to get from the apartment to your place; the space between these two graves; it feels like the same 5 x 4 walk, wherever I go, and I don’t think I’ll ever get out.” I look up, looking for a reaction, but he just watches me. “Whatever anyone says, Giles. I killed her. You can never change that. And I’m always going to be in that cell.”

The silence stretches for a moment before he replies. “I do understand what you’re saying. I’ve done things in my life that haunt me. But you have to accept that you’re not to blame. If you need to blame someone, blame Travers, or the Council. Or, if we’re discussing culpability, blame me. I should never have let you and Willow become involved back in High School. But if I hadn’t, Buffy would be dead, and I would have missed two relationships which meant, and still mean, a great deal to me. It’s all ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ and ‘might have beens’, but we can’t change the past. We have to accept our choices and move on. You had no choice, Xander. You have to believe that. To use your own metaphor: there is a door to that cell, but only you can open it.” He puts his hand on my arm and it amazes me how much comfort there is in such a simple touch. That’s the one good thing to come out of this mess - forming this tentative connection with Giles and I’m terrified that I might do something to destroy it. I smile at him briefly. It’s an effort, but he smiles back and again he waits for me.

“So, you going to lend me your lock pick?”

His smile becomes a grin and he grips my arm tightly. “I’ll even buy you one of your own – properly hallmarked of course! It’s amazing when such things suddenly become useful.” The image of Giles ceremoniously presenting me with my own official breaking and entering tool finally makes me laugh out loud, and he joins me. It’s a good sound and for a moment I feel almost normal. But it’s a fleeting sensation and as I catch Giles’ eye, his face becomes more sombre and he studies me for a moment before he speaks. “You know what happened with the Council was just another battle, however tragic and personal the outcome. If anything, it gives us all the more reason to fight. We’re still on the front line of this war, and you’re needed. You must know that?”

“What if I don’t have the strength to fight anymore Giles? What if I’m not sure I want to fight?”

“You’ve got the strength. You always have had. I just don’t think I was very good at telling you that. Believe in yourself. I believe in you. So do Buffy and Dawn. So did Willow. She trusted you to do what had to be done, however painful, and you didn’t let her down. Now it’s time to trust yourself.” He pauses briefly and it looks like he’s got more to say, but then he just pats me gently on the shoulder and smiles. “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting too old for sitting on the ground without a cushion, and it will be getting dark soon. We should go.” I look round, slightly startled by the passing of time. I hadn’t realised it had got so late. Then I remember the other part of his comment, and I want to tell him that my new image of Giles, with his magic and his hipflask and his gun, is anything but old. But I don’t have the words to express the thought, and the moment passes.

We rise creakily, and just as Giles starts to move away I bend down and place a small rock on the base of her gravestone. I know he’s watching as my hand hovers over the placements of the gift and I stand upright, suddenly feeling self conscious. Giles stoops slightly and runs his fingers lightly across the face of the stone, like he’s paying his respects. “An Ammonite?”

“Yeah, silly really.” I can feel myself flushing, but Giles just looks curious. “It just seemed kind of appropriate, you know? The imprint of a life, locked into the rock. I just thought Willow would have liked it.” Giles nods and something tight in my gut begins to loosen.

“I think you’re right. She would have loved it. Life is tenacious, Xander. It will find a way to leave a memory of its passing. You have your memories of Willow. Remember her and mourn her and love her. But don’t live your life for her. You have to live that for yourself.”

“And if I don’t want to live?”

He glances down at the pocket where I put the knife, but doesn’t say anything for the longest time. I want to turn and hide, but I just shove my hand in my pockets and make myself stand and wait as he studies me. “I believe you have choices. And the only person who can make them is you. The cliché is there for a reason, you know. But if I can help, then I will. In any way I can. I need you to know that. I want to help.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding as I weigh up his words. “I don’t know if I can afford the phone bill to England every two minutes. Maybe we could get you hooked up on email or something?”

“Maybe you could. But I don’t believe we have to go to such lengths. I thought I might stay on in Sunnydale, for a while at least. I mean, if you think I can be of use?”

It’s the first time I think I’ve ever seem Giles look so uncertain. As if he’s not sure he has a place here and I can’t fill the silence quickly enough. “You should know you’ll always have a place here. I’d be very grateful if you’d stay. I know we all would. We’re trying to be adults, but some of us are struggling a bit.“ He doesn’t say anything, but the expression on his face is enough.

Giles stands, waiting for me as I turn back towards the grave site. I can almost feel his gaze on my back as I stare back at the two marble headstones and the empty space. My hand clenches in my pocket and I feel the cold steel of the knife slide through my palm and for a moment I focus. The breeze flutters through the trees as I look at the small stone relic on the base of the gravestone. I don’t know if Giles is right: whether life will find a way to leave a memory, no matter what? But perhaps it’s a thought to hold onto. For now, I’m here on my high-wire, balanced somewhere between the rock and the edge of a blade. But as I turn towards the gate and start to follow Giles, there’s one thing I know with certainty - that there will be someone there, waiting to catch me when I fall.


End file.
